


What Are We Stealing? Or: Ackles' Eleven

by thalialunacy



Category: CW Network RPF, Star Trek RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Caper Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-13
Updated: 2011-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:36:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thalialunacy/pseuds/thalialunacy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen Ackles is a free man. Free to gamble, free to steal, free to walk around in swanky suits-- But, most importantly, free to gather up his old posse and risk everything to get back the one thing he couldn't keep in his sticky fingers: Jared Padalecki. Based on <i>Ocean's Eleven</i> (2001); written for <a href="http://spn_cinema.livejournal.com">spn_cinema</a>. Featuring: Jared and Jensen in swanky suits, Gen in Chanel, Misha in grandpa sweaters, Chris being the voice of reason, Steve in a clown costume, Chad blowing shit up, John cracking wise, Zach being catty, Sandy being bendy, JDM being grumpy, Anton being an innocent face, and Mike in a shirt that says 'Do the Jew'. Among other things.<br/></p><div class="center">
<br/><a href="http://pics.livejournal.com/thalialunacy/pic/004hp2t9">
<br/><img/></a>
<br/></div>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Plan

**Author's Note:**

> **Artist** : [norfolkdumpling](http://norfolkdumpling.livejournal.com) ♥
> 
>  **In addition:**
> 
>  **some mood music :D**  
> [The Day Of](http://www.box.net/shared/sveqplk0ommy947anhv1) \- _Ocean’s Twelve_ OST  
> [A Little Less Conversation](http://www.box.net/shared/2jgmejq7akhusg8tbgkb) (the JLX Remix) - Elvis Presley  
> [One for My Baby](http://www.box.net/shared/8nzxtzzmh4) \- Frank Sinatra  
> [Luck be a Lady](http://www.box.net/shared/k124ffp9ufdsmqx58it9) (Marlon Brando version) - _Guys & Dolls_  
> [Clair de Lune](http://www.box.net/shared/hbmmaq3lc08hvyq25ezz) (orchestral version) - Claude Debussy
> 
> And [**a helpful cast list**](http://thalialunacy.livejournal.com/1228672.html)
> 
>  **Warning(s)** : Technically, Gen’s the ‘bad guy’ in this story; no offense intended and I’m sure she’s lovely in real life. There are some Jew jokes/slurs spoken/worn by a Jewish person, or said in the context of a con job. And if you’re expecting a story that differs greatly from the movie, you’d best look elsewhere; this is basically my loveletter to its genius. You know, with porn.
> 
>  **Disclaimer** : This is a work of fiction, inspired by and drawn greatly from the 2001 version of _Ocean's Eleven_. I am not claiming to know anything about these people's actual lives, nor claiming any ownership of the plot or the script of the film. I made up pretty much everything else; none of the places or artifacts actually exist, to my knowledge, and I’ve, uh, never worked at a museum or attended UW, although I am from the area and have two music degrees. No money or goods have changed hands in the making of this, and no profit is being made from this activity. And hey, don't be hatin, we just like the fuckin.
> 
>  **Dedication** : For 24_centuries, who, upon hearing about this story, said this: ‘OBVIOUSLY THE COUCH AND CHAIR WILL BE SO POSH AND PERFECT AND THEY WILL SIT PRECISELY AND THERE WILL BE FOOD INVOLVED AND A BIT OF ALCOHOL, I PRESUME – ‘ And made me laugh for _days_. This story is nothing like that, girl, but I hope you like it anyway.
> 
>  **Sources/Inspirations/Notes/Etc** : The original screenplay by Ted Griffin (with the utmost respect: I cannot improve upon perfection). _Ocean's 12_ , as well. _Bones_. _Sleepless in Seattle_. My team of amazing awesome cheerleaders, who know who they are—They were with me for the long haul, you don’t even know, especially elucreh. claudia_nic, ijdtw65, and amine_eyes for the ‘omfg does this even make sense’ read-thrus. norfolkdumpling for taking pity on me and offering to do the graphics. I really cannot thank my friends enough, ever. [IMDB](http://www.imdb.com). _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone_. _Hook_. _Snatch_. My former Counterpoint professor and former Head of Music. _Tomb Raider: The Cradle of Life_. [brainyquote.com](http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/b/benjamin_britten.html). And as always, the genius that is Aaron Sorkin.

  


The room is long. Clean. Empty. He sits down in the prescribed seat.

"Good morning," the primly-suited woman in front of him says. They're lined up like a firing squad, only armed with paper and stern gazes.

"Morning," Jensen says back amicably, respectfully.

"Please state your name for the record."

He enunciates carefully. "Jensen. Ackles." But not too carefully.

"Thank you." She is so polite, Jensen almost smiles. "Mr. Ackles, the purpose of this hearing is to determine whether if released you are likely to break the law again. While this was your first conviction, you have been implicated, though never charged, in over a dozen other confidence schemes and frauds. What can you tell us about this?"

Jensen locks his fingers together and looks down for a moment. He looks back up, his face smooth with a hint of sheepishness. "As you say, ma'am, I was never charged."

The combed-over man tries then. "Mr. Ackles, what we're trying to find out is: Was there a reason you chose to commit this crime? Or was there a reason you simply got caught this time?"

Jensen knows this answer, like the back of his fucking hand, but it still sucks to say. "My partner left me, I was upset. I got into a self-destructive pattern."

"If released, is it likely you'd fall back into a similar pattern?"

He pulls a rueful face. Not too bitter, but just bitter enough. "He already left me once; I don’t think he'd do it again just for kicks."

The woman's looking at him again. "Mr. Ackles, what do you think you _would_ do, if released?"

Jensen doesn't smile.

  


It's a cold day when they let him go. He walks out, armed with only the tux on his back and ring in his pocket, to frozen snow that crunches tiredly underfoot-- but it's the sweetest sound he's ever heard. The breath freezing in his lungs tastes like dirty frost. Dirty frost, and a plan.

Three breaths in, he's three steps ahead.

  


The Jeffersonian Museum always smells like dead bodies. At least to Jensen, although that's probably unfair of him. He just knows what goes on there, and has an active imagination, so it's--as a certain hot forensic anthropologist would say--a logical, if inaccurate, association.

The glass doors into the lab are very much impenetrable by any weapon Jensen might have, so he just waits. And like clockwork, a brick shithouse of a woman crosses into his path a few minutes later. "Sir? Sir, you'll need to leave. Nothing to see here."

He nods, glancing wistfully past her, idly twisting the ring on his right third finger. "Be that as it may…" Then he looks at her ruefully, a small smile on his face. "Kidding. I'll be on my way. I just--"

"It's all right, Susie. I'll take it from here."

Susie--whose nametag says 'Shelby'--looks from Jensen to the new guy, whose nametag says 'Ramone'. Then she just glares. "You're late and he's unauthorized."

Ramone gives her his most charming smile and a small shrug. He's got clear blue eyes and regimental sandy brown hair. "All the more reason for you to leave it to me." He tilts his head into the receiver on his shoulder. "Escelantes, checking in. Shelby's on her way back."

"Roger," a crackly voice says on the other end. Shelby nods tersely and is on her way.

"You have a good one," Jensen says politely, waiting for the footsteps to fade away. Then he meets Ramone's gaze. "Hello, Mike."

The guy eyeballs him, his gaze narrow. "I beg your pardon, sir," he says coolly, politely. "You must have me confused with someone else. My name is Ramone. As you can see right here." He points, helpfully, at his nametag.

Jensen's eyes crinkle at the corners, but he doesn’t quite smile. "That's my mistake."

"No problem, sir."

"The person I'm looking for's not here, anyway."

The guy looks down, then looks up again. "You might want to try the Farelli's next to the Memorial Garden. I hear they go there after a big case."

"Farelli's?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thanks, Ramone."

Jensen takes his leave. But he still hears Ramone say quietly: "Thank _you_."

  


While he waits in the lounge, later, he smooths and resmooths the newspaper clipping. _Gates collection adds historic artifact despite controversy_ , it says. _European scandal dissipates._ And it has this big picture of Genevieve Cortese in all her glory, Chanel suit and French twist and no-nonsense nose. Misha Collins can be seen in the background, vitriol in his eyes, along with a hint of admiration that makes Jensen grimace, still.

He'd had that fucking piece of paper for weeks. Kept it safe.

"Checking up on current events?"

The voice startles him, which is just sad. Ten hours out of the joint and he's already going soft. "Ramone?" he says with a smirk as Mike sits down next to him at the bar.

"Glad to meet you. Mike Rosenbaum can't get past the background checks." Mike grins at him. "Just got out?"

"This afternoon." Jensen takes a drink. "You seen him?"

Mike shakes his head, scoffing. "Last I heard he was teaching movie stars how to play cards." Mike eyeballs him again. "Why? You have a plan already?"

Jensen swallows the rest of his whiskey. "You kidding? I just became a citizen again."

  


"Officer Heath? This is Jensen Ackles. I was told to contact you within twenty-four hours." The plastic of the phone is cold against his face. He can see his breath as he forms the words. Well, lies. "No sir, I haven't been getting into any trouble. No sir, I haven't been drinking. No, sir, I wouldn't even think about leaving the state."

  


Jared Padalecki loves nachos. And poker. He loves nachos and poker and he's having nachos and going to play poker here in a minute but the effect is ruined because he knows who he's going to be playing poker _with_ , pardon the dangling preposition. And that's enough to ruin even really excellent nachos.

Los Angeles kills his appetite sometimes, which is just wrong.

The back room reverbs with the thumps from the club, isolated like a little glowy igloo of glamour and stupidity. His 'students' greet each other with complicated handshakes and fists on the back and Jared wonders when hugs got so tedious.

Maybe the question is: When did he get so fucking old? These kids are--well, kids. They're so new and shiny they're nearly blinding.

He sighs. He's going to need more nachos.

  


Jared tries not to look like he's facing a firing squad. A poker-themed firing squad made up of spoiled Hollywood tween sensations. Then he idly starts to imagine guns that shoot playing cards. "The game is five card draw," he drawls. "Everyone remember five card draw?"

"Oh yeah," Zac practically yells.

"Yeah," Lea says, already seeming bored.

"Of course," Chris intones.

"Hell yeah!" Chace actually _fist pumps_ , and Jared really wishes he had a card-gun to shoot at him.

He knucks the deck on the table, instead. "Who wants to start us out? Joe?"

"Yeah," Joe says, manning up. Jared slaps the deck down in front of the Jonas. "Right on."

Joe deals out about four cards before Jared can summon up the will to correct him. "Joe."

"Yeah."

"To the left." Joe looks at him blankly. "Deal to your left."

Joe makes a noise, holds up a hand, follows orders. Jared starts counting the seconds. He gets to about thirty-six--

"Hit me," Chris says regally.

The muscle beneath Jared's left eye twitches. "It's not blackjack."

"Dude!" Efron makes a face like Chris is the dumbest and yet most amusing guy on the planet. It's possible that he really thinks he is.

About forty-five seconds this time, then he's just bored. "Lookin' at 'em doesn't change 'em, guys. You know what you have." He nods at Lea. "Lady bets." She flails around a bit, perfectly manicured hand hovering above her pile of chips. "Let's keep moving," he says, going for light and probably just sounding like an asshole.

Finally she picks a chip up and throws it in. "Blue."

"Blue," Jared says carefully. "That's a fifty."

"Call?"

"Okay. Chris is calling."

"Fifty," Chace matches.

"There it is."

"What the hell," Zac guffaws. "It's only pocket change, right?"

That pushes Jared's 'You're a douchebag' button right quick. Luckily, they're paying him to call them on it. "How you bet is your business. You wanna make 'em think you're bettin for a reason."

"Yeah," Zac agrees affably. "Thanks, man." Jared sighs and pushes Efron's cards back a good foot until they're reasonably near his chest. "Right, right."

"Alright, Chace, how many?"

"Four."

There's a small pain forming behind Jared's right eye, apparently in league with the twitch still in his left. "You don't want four, you wanna fold."

"I wanna fold?"

"Fold."

"Is that good?"

"…okay." Jared takes the hand from him and throws it on the pile.

"What are you doing?" Chace is a second away from going alpha on him. Or at least attempting. Jared just shakes his head.

"You're done." He looks around at the rest of them, assessing. And blinks. "Chris, you've got three pairs."

"Yeah." Chris smoothes his hair back from his face. "And?"

"You can't have three pairs. You can't have six cards in a five-card game." He sounds like kind of a dick, he knows, but he's not sure there's a tone in the world that can convey how much like a dick he's feeling right now, so he gives himself an A for effort.

"Maybe one was mine," Lea offers helpfully.

"Guys. Guys!" Efron interrupts them, makes a huge show of fanning his absolutely _shitty_ hand out on the table. "All…. REDS." And then he straight-up cackles. "What up, dawg!"

As they're slapping high fives and trading insulting ways to spend each other's money, Jared raises his nearly empty glass to his forehead. His other impulse is to bang his head on the table.

So he stands instead. "I'll be right back." He waves his free hand in a circle over the table. "Practice… something."

They're not even looking.

  


When he gets back, there's another person at the table. And he'd know that rumbling, charming, smoke-ridden voice anywhere.

His gut threatens to fucking cave in on itself.

"That's hard to do, isn't it?" Jensen is asking quietly, respectfully. Totally humoring these idiots. "Crossing over, between television and film?" Chips are clinking to the surface of the table. Jared hears every single one fall.

"Not for me, dude." Efron laughs, then notices Jared. "Oh, hey! Jared! We, uh--We got another player. If that's… cool with you."

Jensen looks up at him then, the cards idling in his hands. And Jared's gut pretty much disintegrates.

"Yeah," he says after a long, long moment. "It's cool."

Jensen holds his gaze, and offers up the deck with a calm, smug, yet somehow--contrite? look on his face.

Then Jared sees the ring that Jensen's still wearing.

Their fingers brush. Jared notices--because Jared always notices--the way Jensen's jaw tightens, just for a moment, before Jared takes his seat and the game begins.

About sixty-three seconds go by this time.

"Mr. Ackles," Zac starts, "uh… what do you do? If you don't mind me asking."

"Why would I mind you asking?" Jensen replies, cool as a fucking cucumber. He's looking straight at Jared. "Two cards. I just got out of prison."

Jared throws down two cards as Zac eyes Jensen.

"…really?"

More cards slide across the table. There's a little pregnant pause. "Well," Chace eventually picks it up, like Jared knew he would, "why were you in prison?"

Jensen's looking at his cards, now. "I stole things."

"You stole things? Like, uh… jewels…"

"Incan matrimonial headmasks."

"Any money in those? Incan… matrimonial…"

"Headmasks. There's some."

"Don't let him fool you," Jared pitches in helpfully, "there's boatloads. If you can move em'." He gives himself a card. "Take one. But you can't."

Jensen's looking at him again. He looks straight back. His skin feels all tight. "My fence seemed confident enough," Jensen murmurs.

"Dealing in cash," Jared comes back, "you don't need a fence."

This is an ancient argument. Comfortable. "Some people lack vision."

With a new parry. "Probably everybody in Cell Block E."

Jensen's jaw tics, again, and Jared watches as he carefully sets down a number of chips. "That's five hundred dollars," Jensen says, a hint of gravitas in his voice. Boy always did love the enigmatic drama.

Jared seizes the moment. "Guys, what's the first lesson in poker?"

"Oh, uh," Joe starts, "never bet on the, uh--"

Zac jumps in. "No, uh-- leave emotion at the door."

"That's right, Zac. Today's lesson: How to draw out the bluff. That much money, this early in the game, I'm saying he's holding nothing better than a pair of face cards." He turns to the lucky guy on his left. "Chace?"

"Alright." Chace looks at his cards for about a millisecond. "Yeah, I fold."

"Joe."

"I'm game," Joe says. Gamely. "I will see your five hundred, and I will raise you…" He's counting out chips. "Another five hundred of my own."

"That's a very handsome bet, Joe, but be careful. We don't wanna push him too high, too fast." He locks gazes with Jensen. Something sizzles, he swears it, and he wants another drink to put it out. "Wanna keep him on the leash." Then he turns to the lone lady at the table. "Lea?"

"Call?"

"Call." Jared doesn't cock an eyebrow at her. He really doesn't.

"Call," she insists, and it's clear as daylight she has nothing in her hand.

"And I'll call," Jared finishes. Two more calls, then--

"I'll see you five hundred," Jensen says smoothly, "and raise you two thousand."

Somebody whistles.

Jared's mind is ticking. "Guys, you're free to do what you like. That's a lot of money. But I’m stayin' in. He's trying to buy his way out of his bluff." Yeah, that sounds like Jensen's MO. "Joe?"

"Two," Joe confirms as he puts in his bet.

"Oh, brother," Lea mutters before tossing in her chips.

"Atta girl," Zac says before cuffing her in the shoulder, like he's Sinatra and she's Adelaide.

Then it finally makes it around to Jensen.

"Let's see 'em," Joe challenges.

Jensen pauses. His face is stoic. Jared wants to punch him. "I'm not sure what four nines does, but the ace, I think, is pretty high."

Sucker.

"Dude!" Efron's accusatory. Jared barely hears him. "Thanks for the tip on calling out the bluff!"

Jared's still watching Jensen. It feels like a crevasse is between them, but yet-- That smirk.

 _Sucker._

He finally breaks the staring match and throws up his hands, grinning up at Efron. It's so full of fake sugar he can taste it on the back of his tongue. "You win some, you lose some."

Zac drops down a wad of bills in front of Jared, grinning right back. "Whatever, man. It was fun. Next week?"

Jared nods. "Same bat time, same bat channel."

And the room clears out. Jared waits, flipping chips between his fingers. Jensen's not here to play cards, so.

He waits.

"Hello, Jay."

And his tone is so fucking _warm_ that Jared is quickly done waiting. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm out."

"You're out."

"Of prison. You remember, that day that I went for cigarettes and didn't come back, you must've noticed."

"I don't smoke. Don't," he says to where Jensen's reaching over to steal some chips. He's always been better at the sleight of hand, and it annoys the piss out of Jared. He watches the chip flow across Jensen's fingers, his own hands not stilling, feeling each tug on each muscle all the way through his fingers, hand, arm, shoulder.

"Now," Jensen ambles, as if they have all fucking night, "they tell me that I've paid my debt to society--"

"Funny,” Jared interrupts, and edge of anger in his voice, “I never got a check."

That stops him. Jensen regards him for a moment, still smiling softly. The lines beside his eyes show his sincerity, and Jared can't handle it. "You're not wearing your ring."

"I sold it," Jared lies effortlessly. He learned from the best. "I don't have a partner, or didn't you get the papers?"

"Last day inside," Jensen says with a wry look.

"I told you I'd write."

Jared can practically feel the 'ping' of it hitting home, but Jensen doesn't back down. Jensen should want to throttle him. Lord knows he'd like to kick Jensen's ass six ways to Sunday.

Instead, Jensen just looks… affectionate.

Jared throws down the chips, done. Angry as fuck. He cannot be wooed, here. Forgiveness is not in the cards. Ever. He stands. "Jensen, go. Now."

Jensen stands, too, but he's still holding the chip, looking at it for a moment. "I will," he says quietly, but solidly. "I just… wanted to see that you were all right."

"I am."

"I can see that."

The irony is so thick Jared feels a little ill. He doesn't like being disingenuous, never has. It's just not _him_. Jensen, though...

…is crowding into his space suddenly, and Jared's gut jumps in a familiar way. Making him even more ill. He'd thought he was over this shit by now.

Five _years_.

The words keep repeating in his head, bleating across his synapses as he feels Jensen's heat gathering inches from him. He knows this game, this thrust, and the expected parry--

"No," he manages, just before Jensen's lips reach his.

Jensen stills. He actually seems surprised. Jared wants to laugh and deck him at the same time.

Instead, he inhales and steps back, just enough to meet Jensen's eyes. "I'm not that kind of guy any more,"

Jensen doesn't retreat. Not yet. "What," he says with a wry twisting sound, "did you find Jesus?"

"No."

Jensen pauses. "Fall in love?"

Jared doesn't answer.

"Bullshit," Jensen shoots back, not giving in.

And Jared, for a moment, fucking wishes it was.

  


It isn't until he's three drinks past Jensen's exit that he notices: All the money that Jensen had won is still on the table, in a neat little pile.

Waiting.

"Merry fucking Christmas," Jared says to himself. And then he tips his glass again.

  


"Ackles," is the only greeting he gets.

"Kane," he says back into the phone, nodding once out of habit. "You got what I need?"

"If what you need is country music and cryin' into your beer, yeah."

"How do you always know."

"Lucky Seven, half an hour."

"Roger."

Chris's chuckle is low and comforting. "Ten-four, cowboy. Over and out."

Jensen grins to himself, flips the phone shut, and goes to look for a car to boost.

  


A whistle greets him as he sidles up to the bar. "Nice ride, Ackles."

He grins. "Thanks, Kat. I'll leave it for you if you like."

She shakes her head, drying off some pounders and slinging them onto the rack. "That's sweet, but dirty cars are not the way to my heart."

"What is?"

Chris's voice booms into the room. "Quit hittin' on my staff."

"Why, Christian, you jealous?"

"You bet your ass. I'm just not sure of whom."

Kat laughs tinklingly. "You're cute. And you both need to leave now."

Jensen holds up his hands. "Fine."

She finishes filling a pitcher and hands it and a stack of two glasses to him. "Take this guy off my hands. He keeps trying to tend bar. What self-respecting bar owner tries to tend bar?"

"The kind that's trying to get a look at that tattoo." His gaze pointedly drops to her sternum, low on her chest.

"In his dreams."

"Most likely. Along with Patsy Cline and a Breedlove or two."

"Hey," Chris says, his arms spread. "I'm standing right here."

"Yeah, I know, and can you please stop that? I have a bar to run. Shoo."

Chris tips his hat to her. She rolls her eyes at him with a smile, and they head back to his office.

"She really is fantastic," Jensen comments on the way.

"She is. Total bubblehead."

"Best bar manager you ever had."

"That too."

"Place runs great."

"Too great." Chris takes his hat off, puts it on the desk in front of him, and leans back in his ancient but cushy deskchair. "I'm fuckin' bored."

"You look bored."

"I am bored." Then he straightens, picks up the beer Jensen's poured for him. "So how was the clink? You get the cookies I sent?"

"Why do you think I came to see you first?"

Chris smirks. "Liar."

Jensen deftly commandeers the hat and sits back. "Bite me."

Chris eyes him. There's a long moment. "So tell me."

"I thought you said there'd be crying into beer."

"I have a feeling it's about to start."

"Ye of little faith."

Chris waits. Jensen keeps drinking.

"Come on, Jenny. You know I’m in, even if it's stealing groceries from grandma."

Jensen looks up, vaguely horrified. Chris outright laughs. "Okay, so clearly no maw-maws involved."

"No, thank you. The opposite."

Chris raises an eyebrow. "We Robin Hood-ing it?"

Jensen almost looks uncomfortable, but then it's gone in an instant under his grin. "Get out your tights."

"There's no job in the world that would pay enough for that."

"This one would."

Jensen's serious. Chris doesn't budge.

"It's tricky," Jensen starts finally. "It's never been done before. It's a little… weird, in fact. It's gonna need planning, and a large crew."

"Guns?"

"Not exactly. A lotta security. But the take--"

"What's the target?"

"Eight figures each."

"What's the target?"

Jensen drinks more beer, almost chewing on it. "When was the last time you were in Seattle?"

Chris looks honest-to-God confused. "It rains nine months of the year in Seattle."

"Yeah, well, luckily we'll only be there for two weeks."

"And… what's going to happen in these two weeks?"

Jensen shrugs. "We steal some things, we make a shit ton of money. Any more questions?"

Chris's eyebrow is all the answer he gets.

  


"These," Jensen says, pointing at the blueprints in front of him, "are the display rooms, where a couple of the things are kept. The rest are here--" He points again. "--in storage."

Chris considers the prints. "Well, if I'm reading this right, and I like to think that I am, this is probably the least accessible museum ever designed."

"Yup."

"And this is where, again?"

"The Bill Gates music wing of the University of Washington Museum."

"The Bill Gates wing."

"Yeah."

"These are Bill Gates' stolen artifacts that we're going to steal."

"Yes, they are." Jensen grins at him. "You think he'll mind?"

"More than somewhat." Chris sits back a little, thinking hard. "You'd need at least a dozen guys doing a combination of cons."

"Like what, you think?"

"Off the top of my head? I'd say you're looking at… a Bowski, a Jim Brown, a Miss Daisy, two Jethros, and a Leon Sphinx. Not to mention the biggest Ella Fitzgerald _ever_.” His eyes are wide with it, then they narrow shrewdly at Jensen. “Where do you think you're gonna get the money to back this?"

"If we're hittin' this guy's museum, we'll get our bankroll. Gates has got a long list of enemies."

"Yeah, but enemies with loose cash and nothing to lose?" Jensen waits, and Chris gets it after a short moment. "Misha."

"Misha."

Suddenly there's another voice in the room, and a flashlight beam in their faces. "Hey," a security guard says warningly.

"Jesus, Oscar," Jensen says, not unkindly. "Lower it a bit, would you?"

"Sorry." And the guy actually is, is the thing. "You guys done up here, find what you want?"

Jensen nods. "We're just gonna take these home for the night, make some copies, if it's all right?" Chris manages not to smirk.

"Whatever you need."

Jensen smiles a little, tips his head a little. "Appreciate it."

Oscar nods back, then exits.

A half hour later, Chris pushes the elevator button and stares at it, his arms crossed in front, saying nothing.

"What," Jensen finally breaks.

"I need a reason."

Jensen protests with a half sound.

"And don't say money. Why do this?"

"Why not do it?"

Chris shakes his head. He ain't havin it.

Jensen tries the easy way. "Because yesterday I walked outta the joint after losing four years of my life, and you're running a cowboy bar in a town with no cowboys, cows, or even decent steaks."

Chris gives him that with a head tilt, but still waits for more. Jensen sighs, then looks at Chris with a too-casual shrug.

"Because I'm sick of being the bad guy, of going to the fucking slammer for a crime far less heinous than the shit this guy's got going on under his roof. Because maybe it's time I paid my debt to society, and I sure as shit couldn't do that while in prison. Because maybe Robin Hood had the right idea, and when the opportunity comes along to be a better person, to right some of those wrongs, you should take it."

He pauses, breathing. Chris looks at him, a corner of his mouth turning up. "Been practicing that speech, haven't you?"

"Little bit. Did I rush it?"

"No," Chris says around a chuckle.

"Felt like I rushed it."

"No, I liked it. The steak thing was a load of horseshit, but that's all right." The elevator gets there; they get on. As the door slides shut, Chris muses: "I wonder what Misha will say."

  


"You are crazier than Hugo Wolf in the final stages of syphilis," is what Misha says. They're seated at the table in his inaccurately-named sunroom of his huge house on Queen Anne, drinking mulled wine and eating some lamb concoction while the rain slithers down onto the windows above. "Are you listening to me? You're--both of you--nuts. There are _rules_ here, rules about how the Counterpoint is written--"

"That Cortese has already broken," Jensen reminds him.

Misha waves his wine around. "Cortese is a genius! Cortese is allowed!" He puts his glass down and leans into them, his grandpa sweater bunched up around his elbows. "Do you even know how she acquired those pieces?"

"By hook or by crook?"

" _Completely legitimately._ " Misha sighs and leans back. "Not a parallel fifth in sight. She's flawless."

Jensen clears his throat. "Except for the part where she's a criminal."

Misha shrugs. "The best are."

"Present company included, Professor Collins?"

"Of course, of course." He shakes his head. "But you're not better than the security system she's built up there. It's the lovechild of the Vatican and a Vegas casino. Remember who her backer is."

"We know who her backer is," Jensen says casually.

"We're hoping _you_ remember who her backer is," Chris says, a little less casually.

Misha studies them. And studies them some more. He's like a Norse-ski-sweatered Buddha. "Don't think I don't see what you're doing."

"What are we doing, Misha?"

"If you're gonna steal from Bill Gates, you'd better god damn know. This sort of thing used to be civilized: You'd hit a guy, he'd whack you, done. But with Gates… It's the bank accounts of your third cousin, to start, and you on every sex offenders data base with three hundred thou in loans to Sallie Mae at the end. It's fucking criminal, is what it is, the digital age. True criminal." He shakes his head, then refocuses on Chris and Jensen. "At the end of this, he better not know you're involved. Not know your names, or think you're dead, because he'll kill you. And then he'll go to work on you."

Jensen nods, serious as death. "That's why we have to be very careful, very precise."

"Mm, well-funded," Chris adds softly.

"Yeah," Misha concedes. "You have to be nuts, too. And you're going to need a crew as nuts as you are." He pauses. They've so totally got him. "Who do you have in mind?"

  


"Alright, who's in?" Jensen asks Chris a couple days later, back in LA and back at the Lucky Seven.

"Mike is in. Mike has discovered a dying dowager great aunt in the wilds of Bellevue and has requested a transfer to one University of Washington museum."

"Nice. What about drivers?"

"I talked to Zach and Steve yesterday."

"You're kidding."

"No, sir. They're both in LA, six months off the job. I got the sense they're having trouble filling in the hours."

"Oh?"

"Let's just say clown costumes and kiddy parties, and leave it at that."

"Oh." Jensen pauses, imagining, then shakes his head, moving on. "Electronics?"

"John Cho. John's been doing freelance surveillance work of late, for the FBI mob squad."

"How's his attitude?"

"Okay. Not so bad he's been canned. Or divorced. Yet." They share a grin. Chris thinks about who's next. "Munitions."

"Phil Turentine?"

"Dead."

"No shit. On the job?"

"Skin cancer."

"You send flowers?"

"Dated his wife for a while."

Jensen smirks. Then he thinks. Mans up and says it. "Murray's in town."

Chris looks at him. "He's Padalecki's."

"Yup."

"Think he'll do it?"

"He'll do it."

"For the money?"

Jensen's jaw tics, and Chris sees it, and Jensen knows he sees it. "Course."

Chris looks at him for one more beat, then shrugs. "Well, there also might be an issue with availability, there."

"Oh?"

  


"Alright, bros," a squinty blonde dude outside a bank vault says to his cohorts. "Tuck it back."

He pushes down the red button. The explosives on the door behind him do their job, crack crack crack, and the door slides open with a whiff.

Chad does a surprisingly good funky chicken backwards into the vault… then the alarm goes off.

"Oh, fuck me running." He turns around. "You asswipes! You had one job to do! _One_!"

The ensuing cops handle him nicely but interrogate him pretty thoroughly. "That's all you used in the vent, right?" one of them snarls in his face. "Nothing else?"

Chad straightens as well as he can in his cuffs, insulted. "Back up. Are you accusing me of booby-trapping?"

"Well, how about it?"

But suddenly Chris is there, in a suit and trenchcoat, smoking a cigar, and Chad almost laughs. "Booby traps aren't Mr. Murray's style. Isn't that right…" Chris does this Dramatic Pause thing, and seriously, Chad is going to lose it. "Mayhem?"

He takes a long pull off the cigar, then finally pulls out a badge and flips it open. "Peck, ATF," he says to the cop with relish. "Let me venture a guess. Simple G4 mainliner, back wound, quick fuse, with a drag under 20 feet?" He's eyeing Chad up and down, and now Chad wants to deck him, too. "Yeah. Let me ask you something else, did you search this scumbag, for booby traps on his person? I mean really search, not just for weapons."

He grabs Chad by the arm and spins him around, up against the cop's car. "Stand back."

"Hey!" Chad gives a token protest as Chris starts his pseudo-search. "Here we go."

He feels Chris turn back to the cop. "Go find Griggs, tell him I need to see him."

"Who?" the cop says, his confusion--and awe--palpable.

"Just find him, will ya?" The guy nods and hurries off, his eyes wide. Chad chuckles. Chris leans back down to him. "Hey, Chad."

"Hey, Chris."

"How fast can you put something together with what I just slipped you?"

Chad grunts once. "It's done."

"Nice." Chris hauls him off the car and leads him away.

"Is Jensen around?"

"Yeah, he's waitin' around the corner."

"Jared?"

Chris shakes his head. Chad seems to mull this over for about two-point-five seconds, then shrugs. "Evs. It'll be excellent to work with legit villains again."

Chris smirks, then looks over his shoulder. He raises his voice, throws it down the alley to the scene they're totally not fleeing. "Everybody down, now!"

The explosion is bright behind them, as are the grins on their faces.

  


Jensen shifts in his chair, totally uncomfortable. "Remind me, again, what the hell we're doing at a cheerleading competition?"

"Gymnastics," Chris amends from the seat next to him.

"Right. Which one's Sandy?"

Chris waves at the stage, where four tiny women are doing a series of synchronized dance moves. "The little cute one."

"Right. Who else is on the list?"

"She _is_ the list."

"I dunno, it doesn't seem all that diffic--" He trails off as the girl on top contorts until she's balancing, one-handed, curled up into a tiny ball, on top of the other three.

"We’ve got a grease man," Jensen concedes, his eyes wide.

Chris smirks. "We’ve got a grease man."

  


After the show, they go have a beer. "We need Jeff," Jensen muses.

"He won't do it," Chris replies, shaking his head. "He got out of the game a year ago."

"Get religion?"

"Ulcers."

"Huh."

They both drink, mulling this over.

"We could ask him," Chris finally says.

"Hey, we could ask him."

They clink glasses.

  


Jensen finds Jeff's cabin in the Olympics empty, but he knows where to go from there. He parks his car at the trailhead, pulls out his camera bag, and makes his way to a certain spot on the upper Elwah, where he can smell Jeff's cigarette smoke and hear his humming. But he still can't get the drop on the old man.

"I knew you were there," Jeff says once Jensen's sidled up to where he's sitting on the bank.

"I know."

"I heard your car."

"That was two miles back."

"I heard you before you got up this morning."

Jensen grins. "How ya been, Jeff?"

"Never better."

Jensen gestures at Jeff's left side, where there's a tiny cooler filled with bottles. "What's with the V8?"

"My doctor says I need vitamins."

"So why don't you take vitamins?"

Jeff finally looks up at him, really looks. Glares. Assesses. "You come here to give me a physical?"

Jensen just smiles and reached for his camera bag, taking out his gear and settling down next to Jeff with his camera out. It's a beautiful place, that's for sure.

Jeff finally breaks, though, after a couple dozen clicks of the shutter. "So, are you gonna tell me? Or should I just say no and get it over with?"

Jensen continues taking pictures. "Jeff, you're the best there is. What do you want?"

"Nothing. I've got a nice cabin up here. Goldfish. I'm seeing a nice lady who works for the Forest Service. I've changed."

Jensen finally looks at him, the camera falling a little. "Guys like us don't change, Jeff. We either stay sharp or we get sloppy, we don't change."

"Quit connin' me."

Jensen smiles again, lifts the camera again. "How long you been out here without a bite?"

"They come in the afternoon here, everyone knows this." More clicks go by. Jensen can practically hear Jeff rolling his eyes. "So are you gonna treat me like a grown-up at least? Tell me what the scam is?"

Jensen considers, then lowers his camera. He leans in and says one sentence, low, in Jeff's ear, barely loud enough to be heard over the rush of the river. Then he gets up and walks back to his car, snapping photos along the way.

One is of Jeff, sitting there, openmouthed, unnoticing of the tug on his line.

  


"…and Jeff makes ten," Jensen says to the air at the Lucky Seven a flight later. "Ten oughta do it, don't you think?"

Chris is ignoring him.

"You think we need one more?"

Kat is ignoring him.

"You think we need one more."

He nods to himself, downs the rest of his beer. The glass makes a nice clunk on the table.

"Alright, we'll get one more."

  


The sidewalks around Mann's Chinese Theater are full of tourists, fat wallets just waiting to be plucked. Jensen watches as a thin, pale, baby-faced kid takes his pick, landing himself a nice leather wallet sure to be full of cash and goodies.

The lift is flawless, Jensen has to admit as he picks up the chase and seamlessly follows the kid off the main street. Before they reach his car, Jensen has done a lift of his own, replacing the stolen wallet with a card that just says 'Jensen Ackles' in neat font then 'Nice pull! - Lucky Seven' in Jensen's scrawl.

He heads back to the Lucky Seven, orders a beer, and sits down.

The kid comes in about three minutes later. Jensen gives him points for punctuality, too. "Hello, Anton," He says, holding up the stolen wallet. "Whose is this?"

Anton's face is neutral. "Who are you?"

"A friend of Viktor Yelchin's." Jensen slaps the plane tickets down on the table. "You're either in or you're out. Right now."

Anton sits, finally, sliding into the booth warily. "What is it?"

"It's a plane ticket. A job offer."

"Well, you're pretty trusting pretty fast."

"Viktor has a lot of faith in you."

Anton's mouth takes on a wry curve. "Fathers are like that." Jensen pulls back, surprised. "Oh, he didn't tell you. He doesn't want me trading on his name."

"You do this job, you'll be trading in on yours. If you don't, we'll find somebody else who won't be quite as good and you can go back to feeling up tourists." He looks away for a second, his palm safely still on the tickets. "Can I get another beer, please, Kat?"

When he looks back, Anton has the tickets out of the envelope and in his hand. "That's the best lift I've seen you make yet."

"Seattle, huh?" The kid still doesn't look impressed.

"What," Jensen shoots back, "you don't like Starbucks?"

Anton almost smiles.

  


It’s pouring buckets the evening they touch down at SeaTac. Most of them on the same flight, even; like band camp but with more swagger and less… band. They trundle up I5 in a packed shuttle bus and trudge up the stairs to Misha’s front door.

The doorbell plays Bach.

Misha opens the heavy wooden door and peers out at them. “I think we’ve acquired some gypsies,” he says over his shoulder, and Mike appears, grinning. His t-shirt has a mock-up of the Mountain Dew logo on it, only it says ‘Do the Jew’.

"What,” he says, “did you guys get a group rate or something?"

  


Rain clatters on the sunroof ceiling, an insistent accompaniment to the small conversations going on as they stand around awkwardly, eating and drinking and waiting for Jensen to… do something. They’re none of them sure what, and they’re all wired, tight underneath the surface, but they manage to socialize. Sort of.

“Jumbo shrimp,” Steve says, holding up a speared shrimp. “Oxymoron. And one of Steve’s Peeves.”

Zach eyes him and his food in disgust. “Do you have any idea what kind of toxins are in those things? Farm bred or not, they are disgusting.”

“Shut up.” Steve plops it into his mouth and chews with his mouth open.

“Neanderthal.” Zach says it with ‘tall’ instead of ‘thall’.

“Hipster douchebag,” Steve has no issue retorting back.

“Can’t knock it till you try it,” Zach says back, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

Steve rolls his eyes and spears another shrimp. Then he turns to Sandy. “Want some?”

She takes it, and grins, and it’s blinding. “Jesus,” Zach mutters. “How old _are_ you?”

She laughs, an adorable laugh. “About as old as Babyface McGee, over here.”

Anton wrinkles his nose at her. “Shut up, Sandra Dee.”

She tweaks his nose.

Zach makes a gagging noise to cover a grin.

In another corner: “I’m Chad,” Chad says expansively, presenting his hand.

John peers at him. “Yeah, I know. We met in Albuquerque, remember?”

Chad throws back his head. “Oh yeah, that was some good shit. Did you ever get the stains out of your clothes?”

“…no.”

“Oh man, the wife must’ve been so pissed.”

John glances around the room. “Didn’t get laid for a week.”

“Serves you right,” Zach mutters.

“Hey,” John starts to protest, but at that moment Jensen comes through the door.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Seattle. Everybody eaten? Good. Everybody sober?” He smirks. “Close enough. Alright, before we get started, nobody's on the line here, yet. What I'm about to propose to you is both highly lucrative and highly dangerous.” He doesn’t pause. Much. “Now, if that doesn't seem like your particular brand of whiskey, help yourself to as much food as you like, and have a safe journey, no hard feelings. Otherwise, come with me."

He lets it sit for just a moment, then he turns and goes into the house. The others follow, but one at a time, trickling in an effort to not look more excited or less scared than the next guy. Except: Anton lingers, flipping a coin across his knuckles and staring out at the rainy rhododendrons.

Misha approaches him. "You're Viktor Yelchin's kid, huh? From Russia?"

"Yeah."

"Some wonderful composers came from there. You like it?"

"Yeah…"

"That's wonderful. Now get in the God damn house."

Anton blinks at him. Then does.

  


They gather around Jensen, on haphazard sofas and chairs and cushions, while Jensen's standing in front of an excessively state-of-the-art screen—Misha blames the school, but Jensen’s pretty sure he secretly likes watching Bernstein in HD--that starts flashing schematics.

"Alright, people. This is the University of Washington Museum. And this--" The picture behind him pans. "Is the Bill Gates wing. It houses some of the most legendary and obscure artifacts on the west coast. When it comes to music, it houses _the_ most legendary and obscure artifacts on the west coast. Some of which were procured legitimately." He holds a hand up, forestalling Misha's protest. "But some of which were not."

The picture changes to an ancient piano-looking thing. "Guiseppi Verdi's clavichord." Clicks over to a pile of half-burnt papers. "The original drafts of Mozart's requiem, the last thing he wrote."

"Like in the movie?" John asks cheekily.

Jensen pauses. "Yes, just like in the movie. Except not at all." John gives him a skeptical face. "Ask Misha later." Misha looks incredibly displeased by this turn of events.

Jensen plunges onwards as the picture changes to a tiara. Somebody whistles at the bling. "Maria Callas's famous dress-rehearsal diamonds." Then the picture changes to a pile of letters. "And the collection of loveletters between Benjamin Britten and Peter Pears, spanning over two decades."

Jensen’s eyes flick to the screen. His jaw clenches. Then he clears his throat and looks at each of his cohorts in turn. "These items were stolen. It is our job to steal them back."

"Smash and grab job, eh?" Anton pipes up.

Chris turns to him, a smug yet patient look on his face. "It's a little more complicated than that."

Anton blinks, shifts. "Well, yeah."

Jensen goes back to it as actual schematics fly across the screen. "These are courtesy of Mike Rosenbaum, new security detail at the museum." Mike nods from his cushion. "Okay, bad news first. The place has security that is, as our gracious host so eloquently put it, like the love child of the Vatican and a Vegas casino. The clavichord and necklace were in a special exhibit, which isn't so bad, but she moved them to where the papers are -- in storage. We think somebody warned Cortese--that's the curator--that there'd be an attempt."

"Lame." That would be Chad.

"Totally. Anyways, first, we have to get within the back corridors of the wing, which anybody'll tell you takes more than a smile. Next, through these other doors—“ He points at the screen appropriately. “--each of which requires a six digit code changed every twelve hours. Past those lies the elevator, and this is where it gets tricky. The elevator won't move without authorized fingerprint identification--"

"Which we can't fake," Chris interjects helpfully.

"--And vocal confirmation from both the security system within the museum and the storage unit below."

"Which we won't get."

"Furthermore, the elevator shaft is rigged with motion detectors."

"Meaning if we were to manually override the lift, the shaft's exit would lock down automatically, and we'd be trapped."

"Now, once we get down the shaft, though, then it's a piece of cake. Just a couple guards with guns and a secure door… and getting out of a city with one of the most heavily-guarded port systems in the world with some rather awkwardly shaped antiques." He exchanges a smile with Chris. "Any questions?"

"You said something about good news?" That’s Sandy. Even her effervescence has dimmed a little, her eyes huge and worried.

Jensen feels his own eyes crinkle with a smile. "Yeah. The paycheck."

"How much can a couple of fuckin' antiques really--"

"One man's trash is another man's treasure, Chad," Misha schools gently.

"Or, in this case," Jensen amends, "one man's four antiques is another eleven men's--pardon, Sandy--hundred and fifty million dollars."

There are no whistles this time. Everybody's too stunned.

"There are eleven of us, each with an equal share. You do the math. Any more questions?" Misha raises his hand. "Yes, Dr. Collins?"

Misha stands, saunters to where Jensen is sitting. His sweater today is an amazing mess of pastel horizontal stripes and vertical cables, looking like it was knitted by a colorblind grandma around 1922 and worn with pride since then. Misha pushes up the sleeves and stands there, chin in hand, regarding all of them.

Jensen grins. He's seen Misha do this to classrooms of college kids and boardrooms of suits alike, and it's always a pleasure.

"There once was a lad named Jensen  
Who was, they say, really quite handsome.  
I owed him a favor  
Which he decided to savor  
Asking for the moon and then some."

"Hey," Jensen interrupts, "we went all the way to Belize for you."

"Yeah," Chris adds. "In the summer."

Misha just gives them a look, and continues.

"So here we all sit, such a raggle-tag group,  
Determined to participate in an artistic coup."

Jensen snorts.

"The risks, they are many, too many to name,  
They got cameras--"

"Oh yeah," Jensen says belatedly. "Sorry, forgot to mention the cameras."

"--they got bells, let's just say: they got game."

Chad snorts this time.

"But we have some game too, the very best, in fact,  
When it comes to conning and thieving, there is nothing we lack.  
So I have no fear, in fact, I have a feeling  
That nothing will stop us--"

Misha pauses dramatically, then looks at Jensen with overdone faux-puzzlement. "Wait, what are we stealing?"

He keeps the face for a moment, then grins. Jensen laughs outright, and the rest of the room breaks into applause and chuckles.

Misha bows, with a flourish, then waves at them. "Alright, enough. Dress-rehearsals start tomorrow. Everybody get some sleep. And drink lots of tea."

Jensen puts an arm around Misha's neck. "You realize we're not actually music students, right?"

"Music," Misha muses, "is a magic greater than all we do here."

"You did not just quote _Harry Potter_ at me."

Misha just smiles. "Go to bed."

"Yes, Professor."


	2. The Set-Up

"Alright,” Jensen tells them all the next morning. “Here's how we begin.”

“First task: Reconnaissance. We have to know this museum inside and out, everything that's going on, from the rotation of the exhibits to the food Catering puts together for the openings.”

Steve stares at a Rothko like the answers to the meaning of life are in there, when he’s really eyeing the door twenty feet behind it, through which a security guard just strolled. "He went through at 10:44."

Zach clucks his tongue. "10:46. Get a watch that works."

“Bitch.”

“You bet your bottom, honey.”

Steve stares a little longer at the Rothko. “You know, just because no one understands you doesn’t make you artist.”

He so totally deserves the round slap to the head Zach delivers.

“I wanna know everything about every guard, every watcher, everyone with a security pass. I wanna know where they're from, what their nicknames are, how they take their coffee.”

“Or if they have a crush on a stripper,” Mike chimes in.

Jensen cocks an eyebrow at him. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, dude. One of the IT guys has a boner for some girl named Charmaine? At Rick’s.”

Chris grins. “Ah, Charmaine. Girl owes me.”

Mike holds out a fist for knucks. “You dog.”

“Damn straight.”

"Second task: Power. On the night of the job, we're gonna throw the switch on the U-District. Chad, it's your show."

"You want broke, blind, or bedlam?"

"How ‘bout all three?"

"Right. I got this."

"Third task: Surveillance. Museum security has an eye and an ear on everything, so we want an eye and an ear on them. John?"

"Well, it's not the _least_ accessible system I've seen."

"But."

"But it's close. I don't suppose they have a closed-circuit feed I could tap into?"

"No."

"Then it's definitely a black bag job. Do they employ an in-house technician?"

"Two. And one of them's lonely."

Chris offers his coat to the not-very-clad girl who’s sharing the alley with him. She shakes her head. “I gotta get back in.” She hands him one very shiny and very stolen ID badge.

Chris tips his hat. "Thanks, Charmaine. I'll have this back in an hour.” He turns to go, then calls over his shoulder: “Say hi to your mom for me."

Charmaine pauses in the doorway and smiles. "Say it yourself, she'll be on stage in five minutes."

“…Huh.”

Jensen wipes his hands on his napkin, glancing at the screens set up in front of him. They’re blank at the moment. Chris takes a fry from his plate and eats it lazily. He keeps his mouth closed, though, which is considerate of him.

“Jerk,” Jensen says anyways.

Chris winks. Jensen smiles. Cool as cucumbers. Mm-hmm.

"Watch it, bud!" Zach says loudly to Steve, who has just completely purposefully run into him in one of the display rooms of the museum. It’s a semi-crowded afternoon, late on a Friday but not so late the office workers have left.

Steve rears back, clown costume permitting. It’s not the strangest thing Zach’s seen him in, either. "Who you calling bud, pal?"

Zach puts a hand on a hip. "Who you callin' pal, friend?"

"Who you callin' friend, jackass?" Steve loosens his grip and the balloons make a carefully-timed bid for freedom, obscuring the nearest security camera.

"Don't call me a jackass," Zach retorts, his voice rising.

Steve’s voice climbs to match. "I just did call you a jackass."

Security, in their little locked room behind everything, squints at the feed coming from the now-blocked camera. "433, we have a visual impairment on the northwest 025 exit door camera."

"Copy that, I see them," says the guard nearest to the Great Balloon Incident. Who happens to also be in front of the door to the server rooms.

He strides over to the arguing duo, leaving his post wide open.

John walks innocently up to the door, swipes the lifted ID confidently, and goes about his business.

"I'm not in your face!" Zach is now at his most sassy, hand in the air and everything.

"You are in my face!” Steve is nearly shouting, his clown makeup starting to flake from fake-distress.

"Sir,” the security guard tries, “could you please remove your--"

"You bumped into me!" Zach has his hand over his heart now.

"You were in my way! I was trying to deliver my balloons!"

"Gentlemen!" The guard keeps trying.

Zach just starts laughing, pointing a little. “Clownie’s a balloon boy, too! You're a balloon boy."

"Yeah, I'm a balloon boy. It’s one of the office ladies’ birthday. And you are spitting in my face.” He makes one pretty angry clown.

Zach cackles, pretty much doubled over at this point. "Balloon boy!"

The screens in front of Jensen and Chris crackle to life. Chris breathes out heavily. "Aaand we're up and running."

Jensen narrows his eyes at the screens, which are displaying the back corridors and offices of the wing. "Why do they always paint hallways that color?"

Chris shrugs. "They say taupe is very soothing."

The security guard is getting desperate at this point. "I'm gonna need you to move these balloons now."

"You want me to move my balloons?” Steven replies angrily. “You know what? I will move the balloons, because I have a very important client waiting for these.” He grabs said balloons and stalks away, his red shoes squeaking and squawking while he keeps muttering. “I don't have time to fool around with you… circus animals."

Zach’s guffaws follow him down the hall.

John is almost clear of the hallway, his hand on the handle of the door, when one of the security guards catches up with him. “Excuse me!”

John takes a big breath and turns, a super charming smile on his face. “Yeah?”

The guy eyes him. John looks as guileless as possible. Somehow it fucking works, because the guy just holds up the adaptor John had apparently left in the server room. “This yours?”

John lets out a huff of air. “Yeah, yeah, that’s mine.”

The guy hands it over, all chummy now. “You get good signal on that thing?”

John blinks. Guy is clearly all muscle and no brain. “Uh, yeah, great.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” John’s through the door but he can’t resist tossing over his shoulder: “It’s great for watching porn while the wife’s in the other room.”

He hears the guy’s frat boy laugh as he closes the door. And wipes the sweat from his brow.

Chris and Jensen both let out a big ole ‘oof’ of relief. “Well?” Jensen says, looking at Chris.

Chris shakes his head. “Yeah.”

"Fourth task: construction. We need to build an exact working replica of the vault room."

"For practice?" Sandy asks perkily.

"…something like that,” Jensen hedges.

“Fifth task: Intelligence. We need those codes, Anton, from the only person who has all three."

"Who, Cortese?"

"Learn to love her shadow."

"Wait wait wait, all I get to do is watch some chick?"

"You gotta walk before you can crawl."

Chris rolls his eyes and claps Jensen on the shoulder. "Reverse that."

"Sixth task: Transport. Mike, you take Zach and Steve to the dealership and—"

“Work my Jew magic, got it.”

Jensen pinches the bridge of his nose. “I hate you.”

Mike holds a hand out for knucks. “Clearly, if you’re making me take the Wonder Twins along.”

Jensen bumps fists with him, and then they look over to where Zach and Steve are currently in a battle over the single working controller on the NES they’d found at Goodwill earlier in the day.

“Sorry, Princess,” Steve snickers as he sits on the thing. “But our controller is in another castle. An impenetrable one.”

Zach merely raises an eyebrow and flexes his wrist. “Honey, if you think your ass is an impermeable fortress, then you have got another thing coming.”

Jensen puts his whole face in his hand this time.

And after all that is completed, the last step is up to their most senior (though not by a lot, thanks very much) member: Jeffrey Dean Morgan.

Or, as he will be known for the remainder of the job, Dr. Nicholas Gelfler, Professor of Music, specialty Italian Renaissance, at a very small university in the south of Wales. Who has an appointment to speak with one Ms. Genevieve Cortese about a possible exhibit involving a newly recovered piece of Handelian manuscript.

Jeff, for all his experience, is surprisingly fussy as Misha fits him into some Scholarly Garb (read: a sweatervest and chinos). "Wish I could just implant your brain into my head. Or better yet, get you major reconstructive surgery so you could do this."

Jensen eyes him as Jeff tugs at his shirt. He clears his throat. "Misha, would you excuse us, just for a second?” Misha eyes them both, then shrugs and leaves. “Thanks."

Jensen walks up to where Jeff is examining every seam in the mirror. "Jeff, you sure you're ready to do this?"

Jeff stills, then turns to Jensen. Jensen knows the answer before he speaks, but speak he does. "If you ever ask me that question again, Jensen Ross Ackles, you will not wake up the following morning."

Jensen nods, his jaw tight from not smiling. He walks back to where Chris is sitting on the couch. "He's ready," he says offhandedly.

“Ya think?” Chris replies.

"My name,” Jeff is saying to the mirror in his best Welsh accent, “is Nicholas Gelfler..."

Chris plays idly with his keychain as he stands with Anton in the crowded lobby. "Okay, tell me about Cortese."

Anton makes a noise of disbelief, and shakes his head. "The lady's a machine. She arrives at the museum every day at 11am, same car, same driver. Remembers every guard and receptionist's name on the way in. Offices are upstairs, she works hard, meets with clients, dealers, college reps, etc. Hits the museum floor for rounds once every three hours, more if it's busy or a weekend. Talks with the floor manager for five minutes every time."

"What do they talk about?"

"All business. Cortese likes to know what's going on in her museum, likes to be in control. There's rarely a large group or incident she doesn't know about or handle personally. She does a security sweep at about 6pm, where an assistant hands her a black portfolio. The contents: the day's attendance, and new security codes. Then she heads to the restaurant. Like I said, a machine."

"That portfolio contains codes to all the secure doors?"

"Mm-hmm. And two minutes after they've been changed, she's got them in her hand. I tell you, you guys really can pick ‘em. This lady's as smart as she is ruthless. The last guy they caught trying to scam her with a fake painting? She not only sent him up for ten years, but she had the bank seize his house, and then she bankrupted his brother-in--"

"--brother-in-law's coffee shop, yeah, I heard."

"She doesn't just take out your knees. She and Gates, they go after your livelihood and the livelihood of anybody you ever met."

"You scared?"

"You suicidal?"

"Only in the morning. Now what?"

"Now comes the love interest."

"He or she?" Anton gives him a look. Chris grins back. "Hey, it's Seattle."

Anton just shakes his head a little. "He."

Chris nods. "Where's he come from?"

"He comes through one of the back entrances, hangs out flirting with the office girls, as far as I can tell, until she's ready for dinner. Then he comes down from the offices." He points up the stairs. "Here."

"Soon?"

"Right about… Now."

A tall, fit white guy with long-ish brown hair and a huge smile starts down the stairs, laughing over his shoulder at someone remaining up there, and Chris nearly facepalms. But that'd be too obvious, so instead he turns his head while Anton watches the big guy pass. The guy never sees them. "Still don't know if we can use him yet," Anton continues. "Actually, I haven't even caught his name."

"Jared," Chris says reluctantly.

"Huh?"

"His name is Jared."

"We have to talk."

Jensen looks up from where he’s been overseeing the finishing touches on their fake vault. "Okay..."

"Now."

Chris drags him outside, lights them both cigarettes, then gives him the evil eye. "Tell me this is not about him, or I am walking. I am walking off this job right now."

Jensen’s grip on the cigarette tightens, but he stalls. "Who?"

"…Jared,” Chris practically growls. “Genevieve Cortese. Tell me this is not about screwing the girl who's screwing your boyfriend."

"Ex-boyfriend," Jensen amends quickly. "And that is the lamest term ever. Can't you say partner? Partner sounds more…" He waves a hand in the air vaguely.

"Like you're stockbrokers."

"I was going to say distinguished."

"Or crime fighters. And I can only take so much irony in a day."

"Shut up. Chris, you remember when we first got into this business? We said we were going to play the game like we had nothing--"

"Nothing to lose, yeah."

"Well, I lost something. I lost someone. That's why I'm here." Jensen is insistent. "You know this is a good job. A job worth doing."

"Yeah, I know. But what happens if you have to choose?"

"I won't."

"But what if you do?"

Jensen doesn't answer.

"And remember, Jared does not split eleven ways!"

Jensen finally says, quietly: "If everything goes to plan, I won't have to be the one to make that choice."

Chris takes a drag, eyeing him the whole time, but he doesn’t say anything else.

Finally, Jensen has to ask. “How'd he look?"

"He looked good," Chris admits easily.

Jensen grimaces at him. "…thanks."

“You know the libretto,” Misha assures Jeff with a pat as he’s leaving the house. “I just hope there’s traffic.” Jeff looks at him, an eyebrow raised. “Oh, musicians are never punctual. She’d be suspicious immediately.”

So Jeff shows up seven and a half minutes late, says all the right things when she questions him about his business there, is suitably impressed but not overly so when she shows him around her museum and prized artifacts, and Genevieve never suspects a thing.

“I can assure you, Dr. Gelfler, your piece will be put in a place of honor at our upcoming opening.”

“Wonderful, wonderful,” Jeff replies. Genevieve looks at her watch, then smiles at him, and her wish to end the appointment is obvious, but Jeff has one more item to slot into place. “I hate to be a bother, Ms. Cortese, but I’m afraid I have one more favor to ask.”

Genevieve doesn’t waste time. “Yes?”

“I have a few other… items, things that would be of no interest to you, I’m sure, which I need to keep safe for a few days, until my business here is concluded.”

“Doesn’t your hotel have a safe?”

He puts a hand up. “I have seen your _60 Minutes_ exposés on hotel staff. I am not willing to compromise on this matter.” He smiles. “I will pay you handsomely in return for your assistance.”

She purses her lips. “Alright. When do you need delivery?”

When Jensen slides into the chair opposite Jared’s, Jared’s startled gaze is intense, glaring. The noise of the restaurant seems to fade away.

Then he’s just really, really angry.

“You have no fucking right.”

Jensen puts up a hand. “I just wanted a drink. To catch up.”

“Bullshit. You didn’t come all the way to Seattle for a _drink_.”

Jensen’s jaw clenches for a moment. Then he drops his hand. "Alright, then, I'll make this quick.” His eyes never leave Jared’s. “I came here for you. When I get on with my life, I want you with me."

Jared tilts his head, disbelief clearly on his features. "Listen, I don’t know what gave you the idea that you should try for anything, but it ain’t gonna happen. You're a thief and a liar."

Jensen’s ready for that one. "I only lied about being a thief, and I don't do that any more."

"Steal?"

"Lie."

Jared makes a sound of disgust. "I'm with someone now who doesn't have to make that kind of distinction."

"No, she's very clear on both."

Jared shakes his head. "You know what your problem is?"

"I only have one."

"You've met too many people like you. I'm with Gen now."

"Does she make you laugh?"

"She doesn't make me cry."

Jensen’s jaw clenches again. But Jared’s on a roll. He’s had plenty of time to ruminate on this shit, afterall.

"See, the people you steal things from, they have insurance to compensate them, they get made whole again. I had to leave Texas to get away from what happened. How'm I gonna get my five years back, Jensen?"

"You can't,” Jensen admits easily. “But what you can do is not throw away another five--"

Jared throws down his napkin. "Oh, you don't know shit."

"Jared, alright,” Jensen says insistently, “you don't love me any more, you wanna make a life with someone else, fine, I’m gonna have to live with that.” He forces Jared’s gaze. “But not her."

Jared’s smile is brittle. "Spoken like a true ex-husband."

"I'm not joking, Jared."

"I'm not laughing, Jensen. You have to admit there is a bit of a conflict of interest when you give me advice about my love life."

"Yes. But that doesn't mean that I'm wrong."

Jared presses his lips together, trying to rein it all in. He’s got to get through this. Without punching anybody. "Do you remember what I said to you when we first met?"

Jensen smiles a little, the corners of his eyes crinkling minutely. "You said that I better know what I’m doing."

"Do you? Now? Because, truly, you should walk out the door if you don't."

"I know what I’m doing."

And then suddenly there’s another voice. A decidedly feminine one. "What _are_ you doing?"

Jensen swallows, but covers it perfectly. Jared just knows him too well. "Just… catching up."

Jared stands, fits his hand to the small of Genevieve’s back. "Gen, meet my… old friend, Jensen."

"Mr. Ackles." Her voice is not warm.

"I'm in your seat," Jensen says, his voice much warmer. He stands and pulls back the chair for her. She accepts gracefully, and sits, turning to Jared.

"Forgive me for being late. A client required my attention." She smiles, and Jared sits, relieved. Smiling back.

"That's fine. Jensen was… walking through the restaurant and spotted me."

"Is that right?"

"Yeah,” Jensen says. “Imagine the odds."

"Of all the gin joints in all the world…" She trails off. They laugh. It's not funny. She’s got Jared’s hand surrounding hers. "You recently were released from prison, is that correct?"

"That's right."

"How does it feel to be out?"

"About the same."

Jared clears his throat. "Jensen was just about to--" But the words kind of die. Jared’s never been that great of a liar.

But Jensen always was. Is. "I just stopped by to… say hi to Jared. For old time's sake."

"Stay and have a drink," Genevieve says generously, clearly not meaning a word.

"He can't--" Jared says, at the same time as Jensen says, "I can't." Jensen looks at him with a small smile on his face. Jared avoids his eyes, but his neck is red.

"Well, then. I don't imagine we'll be seeing Mr. Ackles any time soon, right?"

"You never know," Jensen says offhandedly. Jared feels his teeth grind just a little.

"Ah,” Genevieve replies casually, “I know everything that's happening in my museum."

Jensen acknowledges that with a nod and a wry smile. There's another awkward moment. "Good to see you, Jared."

Jared tosses him a smile, but doesn’t take his eyes off Genevieve. "Take care, Jensen."

Jensen tips an imaginary hat. "Ma'am."

"Mr. Ackles," she replies coolly.

And Jensen takes his leave. He cuts out of the restaurant and makes his way into the cool Seattle night.

Completely unaware that Anton is silently, flawlessly, two steps behind.

Jensen claps his hands together and surveys his group.

"Tomorrow, the day is yours, do what you like. Go to Pike Place, ride the Monorail. Whatever. Call is at 5:30, makeup and costume. Jeff's package arrives at 7:05, Anton grabs our codes. All goes well, we're a go. 7:30, Sandy gets locked in to the vents, we're committed. From this point, we have thirty minutes to blow the power, or she is stuck in there overnight and will most likely suffocate. Once the electricity goes, all access points to the vault and its elevator will automatically shut down for two minutes. That's when we make our move."

He gestures to the faux-vault, where Sandy is in place. "Okay, you're in the vent, ten feet from anything. You have to get from there to the door without touching the floor. What do you do?"

"Ten says she shorts it," Steve says.

"Twenty," Zach responds immediately.

She doesn't short it. They applaud. Jensen’s heart beats a little easier.

Then a rough call comes through headquarters from the back door.

“Lose something, Ackles?”

They all turn to see a middle-aged cop dragging a very handcuffed Chad Michael Murray into the room.

“Oh, Christ,” Chris mutters, putting his hand over his eyes.

Then the cop grins.

“Jim, holy shit,” Jensen says, relieved and a little in awe as he goes over and claps the cop on the back. “How—“

“Routine sting. Your boy here is not so subtle in his proclivities.”

“Hey!” Chad protests. “Not all strippers are hookers!” Jensen shakes his head. Chris mutters something about needing a drink. “Besides, you’re the one whose last name is Beaver.” He snickers. Jim smacks him upside the head. “Brutality!”

Jensen rolls his eyes and walks over, fishing a pen from his jacket pocket and picking the cuffs in about two seconds. “How’d you get him back here? You two didn’t know each other before this, did you?”

“No, this Mensa candidate here thought he’d drop your name and see what happened.”

Chad grins. “It fucking worked, didn’t it?”

Jensen doesn’t smile back. “And you’re damn lucky it did. Do you realize what could have gone down here?” Chad opens his mouth—“And if you make a fellatio joke so help me _God_ I will let him take you back to the station.” Chad closes his mouth. “I did not bring you on this job to act like a frat boy, you hear me? This could’ve been the end of the con, our careers, our _lives_. I need your ass in the game, Murray. You lose focus for one second, and somebody gets hurt. And I will not stand for it."

Chad, by now, looks thunderous. Mutinous. Is noticeably not smiling. “Fucking buzzkill. Now I see why Jared left your sorry ass.”

The room, which had been quiet to begin with, goes so still they can hear the electricity buzzing.

If looks could kill, Chad would be dead a thousand times.

“You little—“

But impending death is interrupted by a clatter as Cho comes on the scene. "Jensen.”

“Not now, John.”

“Yes, now. Now, we have a problem."

And his tone brokers no argument.

Jensen looks at him, his face still cold with anger. Chris steps forward and puts a hand on Jensen’s shoulder. “What is it?”

"He’s been red-flagged," John explains, tipping his chin towards Jensen. "It means the moment he sets foot in that museum, anywhere on the grounds, they'll be watching him. Like hawks. Hawks with video cameras."

Chris sits, sighing. "That's a problem." He turns to Jensen, who’s been sufficiently distracted from Chad’s shenanigans. "Any idea how this happened?"

Jensen doesn’t hesitate. "No."

Anton makes a noise. They all turn to him. "Aw, come on. He's been chasin' Cortese's boyfriend. The two of them got in an argument two nights ago." Jensen stares at him, confused. Anton shrugs. "I was tailing you."

"And who told you to do that?"

"I did,” Chris admits readily. “I was concerned you couldn't leave Jared alone."

"Who's Jared?" John asks.

"My partner," Jensen answers.

Chris shakes his head. "Ex-partner."

"Jared is here?" Jeff says, surprise clear in his voice.

Chris meets Jensen’s accusatory gaze head-on. "I'm sorry. I didn't know if it would sting you, but it did. You're out, Jenny."

"He's out?" Jeff says, utter disbelief in his voice.

Chris shrugs. "It's either that or we call the whole thing off. His involvement puts us all at risk."

Jensen’s ire is good and redirected at Chris. "This is not your call."

Chris stands to meet him. Despite being shorter, he’s not exactly un-formidable. And he’s kicked Jensen’s ass a time or two. "Oh, you made it my call. When you put him before us. You made it mine."

"This is _my_ job."

"Not anymore."

John interrupts them with logic. "Wait, wait wait, he can't just be out. Who's gonna trigger the vault?"

Chris pauses, then turns to Anton. "Kid, you up for it?"

Anton inhales, but covers. "I can do it."

"Done,” Chris commands. “Locate the others, let 'em know the change in plan. Curtain goes up at seven."

Jensen lets out a curse and turns on his heel. The rest exchange glances, but follow his lead, until only Jeff is left, standing with his eyes narrowed in disbelief.

"Jared's with Cortese now?” he calls out to their retreating backs. “She's too short for him!"


	3. The Heist

Genevieve’s not too short for him, Jared’s pretty damn sure of it. She’s funny and wry and whip-smart, and as she sits across from him at dinner the night of the exhibit opening, he knows that despite not being the love of his life, she is very much someone he loves. Someone who respects him, someone who lays it all out on the table every time.

And that’s more than enough for him.

"Where you gonna put your hands?" Chris asks, eyeing Anton while casually flipping a butterfly knife open and shut.

Anton demonstrates.

"No good,” Chris says immediately.

Anton shrugs. He’s twitchy as hell.

"Don't touch your tie,” Chris admonishes, “look at me.” Anton does. Barely. “Okay. I ask you a question, you have to think of the answer, where do you look?" Anton looks down. "No good. You look down, they know you're lying.” Anton looks up. Chris shakes his head. “And up, they know you don't know the truth.”

Anton kind of wants to kill him.

“Don't use seven words when four will do. Don't shift your weight. Look always at your mark, but don't stare. Be specific, but not memorable. Be funny, but don't make her laugh. She's gotta like you and then forget you the moment you've left her sight. And for God's sake, whatever you do, don't, under any circumstances--"

"Chris!" Cho's voice calls from the next room.

"Yeah?"

"Can you take a look at this?"

"Sure." Chris exits without a backwards glance.

Anton _definitely_ wants to kill him.

Chris gets his lean on in the doorway, watching as Jeff finishes knotting his (awkwardly but in-character-ly paisley) tie. “It’s time.”

Jeff starts to stand, but pauses, his face drawn and his hand on his stomach. “Jeff?” Chris asks quietly.

“I’m fine.”

“What’d we always say about those cigarettes?” Chris teases lightly.

“I said I’m fine.”

Chris regards him. “Alright, then. Let’s do this.”

Jeff nods. Chris leaves. Jeff checks the mirror one more time, straightens his spine, then follows suit.

No sweat.

The opening is just about to start when Jeff arrives. Genevieve is at the front entrance, making last-minute directives. "Mr. Gelfler?"

He nods. "Ms. Cortese."

Her lips are pursed. "It's a very busy night for me, are we on schedule?"

"I have no reason to suspect otherwise. My couriers should be here momentarily."

And they are. A few minutes later, Zach and Steve slip out of a town car dressed sharply in black suits with earpieces, the whole nine yards. Cortese regards them briefly. “They’re very, very valuable jewels,” Jeff says casually as he holds out his hand for the briefcase. She nods tersely, and watches as it’s transferred from wrist to wrist, the handcuff gleaming brightly.

She leads them inside. Zach and Steve flank the rear. They do not make eye contact with a security guard whose name tag says ‘Escalantes’. Nor do they take note of Jensen, who’s clearly visible just inside one of the display rooms.

Genevieve does, though. She gestures at a PA, who immediately joins them. They never stop walking. "Find Ms. Wallace, tell her Mr. Ackles is in the Purple Room." The PA nods and veers off with intent.

At the first set of security doors, Genevieve stops. "I'm afraid I can't have any private security personnel in the back rooms, I hope you don't mind."

"No, no, of course—“

“Jeff!”

A man in an awful Hawaiian shirt has caught up to them, his hands out and a huge smile on his face. “Jeff Morgan!”

Jeff blinks, not breaking character, and eyes the guy. “Pardon?”

The guy’s smile falters. “You—“ Jeff doesn’t budge. “You look just like a guy I went to high school with down the road. Name’s Jeff… Sorry.” He makes a conciliatory hand gesture.

Jeff lets out a jovial laugh and claps him on the shoulder. “Well, clearly I am not said guy, but thanks very much.” He very nicely shakes hands and steers the guy away. “Cheers.” Then he turns to Genevieve and lowers his voice. “Ms. Cortese, please, do let’s get on with this. I have never enjoyed the touch of steel against my skin."

Gen gives him a look, trying to ascertain whether he's a dirty old man or not. Then she takes him past the first door and lets it click behind them as she leads them to an office, where she proceeds to examine the briefcase. There are four innocuous-enough looking jewel-like things inside the red-velvet interior. "Lift them up please." There’s nothing underneath, of course. All clean.

"Alright, Mr. Gelfler,” she says, perhaps just a little reluctantly. “I acknowledge that your briefcase does not contain any dangerous or illicit material and I further agree to take custody of said brief case and store it in my vault for a period of twenty-four hours. Now, I cannot actually allow you to accompany the briefcase into the vault--"

"Why not?"

"Insurance, for once, security, another, but most of all? I just don't trust you." Jeff smiles. There's a knock on the door. "Excuse me."

A no-nonsense middle-aged woman with a hawk-like nose comes in. She ignores Jeff completely and speaks in low tones to Genevieve. "Two plainclothes on Ackles. He's at the bar now."

Genevieve nods. "Mr. Gelfler, this is my floor manager, Ms. Walsh. Now, if you will allow her, she will arrange for your briefcase to be stored inside our vault while you watch on a security monitor. Those are my terms. Yes or no?"

Jeff puts his hands out in an expansive gesture of acceptance. "You leave me no choice."

She smiles. There’s not much warmth in it. "Good."

Cho pokes at the mic. “Chad. You in yet?”

“I hate that question.”

Cho grins.

“We’re in,” Steve and Zach say after they’ve worked aside the vent cover past which Sandy is going to squeeze.

“Show-off dickwads,” Chad says back.

“Love you too, Gidget,” Zach crows back.

"Deep breaths,” Cho says over his mic into Anton’s earpiece. “You'll do fine."

"Thank you," Anton says on an exhale.

"No sweat, you're a natural.” John grins, even though he knows Anton can’t see it. “But don't screw up."

Anton glares up at the nearest camera.

Genevieve stops just inside the control room. "This is our security center. It's self-explanatory. You'll be able to monitor your briefcase right from here." She looks rather pointedly at her watch.

Jeff gestures graciously. "Don't let me keep you."

She doesn’t. "Mr. Gelfler," she says with a nod.

"Ms. Cortese."

After she’s left, he allows himself a small triumphant smile.

"Anton, you're up."

Anton watches as Genevieve comes through the doors leading to the back area. "Got her."

"How are you, Don?" she’s saying to one of the guards as Anton approaches her.

"Ms. Cortese?” he says. “Hi, Sheldon Willis, FBI.” He flashes the badge and everything. “I'm afraid I need a few minutes of your time."

Her mouth tightens, but she makes a gesture for him to continue. "Anything for the federal government."

"Thank you. Will you accompany me to the front entrance, please?"

The procession into the opening relevant to our interests goes a little like this:

Jared, tan and grinning in his suit, excited for the evening and ready for whatever it brings.

Jensen, following Jared with intent but staying unseen for now, confident in his suit but with one hand clenched in a fist that betrays his very real tension about coming events.

And two of Genevieve’s personal security, right behind Jensen.

"Okay,” Chris asks of Steve and Zach as they assist Sandy into the vent face-first, “when do you make the deposit?"

Steve makes a ‘doi’ face at him. "Uuuhh, when we get your signal. Dude, what do we look like, a couple of peckerwood jackasses or something?"

Chris doesn't answer, just gives them a look, then turns to the tiny woman now in a tiny space. "McCoy, how does that feel? You all right?" They get a toe-wiggle in answer. "You want something to read? Magazine?"

"Funny, boys," echoes tinnily, but perkily.

They all grin. "Alright."

As they’re walking to the front of the building, Anton’s explaining the situation in quiet, sympathetic but not sycophantic tones. “This just came to our attention this morning, Ms. Cortese. Apparently he's got a record longer than my… Well, it's long."

Cortese eyes him. "If he is who you say he is," she says, taking the tiny magical golden envelope—the one with the codes, the reason Anton’s dressed in the ridiculous suit with the ridiculous glasses--out of her folder and into her jacket pocket. "You been at the Seattle Bureau long?"

"Yeah, about eighteen months."

"You know Lorraine Schutter, over there, work with her at all?"

Anton very carefully does not clench his jaw. Instead, he lets out a little breath. "Not since she died last year."

Genevieve stills, then ‘hmm’s non-committally.

And by that time, they’ve reached Mike, who is just inside the front entrance.

Anton clears his throat. "Ramone Escalante?"

"Yes."

"Sheldon Willis, FBI."

Mike spreads his hands. "What's goin’ on?"

"It's come to our attention that when you applied for this position--"

Genevieve interrupts, voice quiet but made of steel. "I think it'd be better if we speak off the floor."

Anton inclines his head, and she leads them back into the building.

Jared doesn’t see it coming. He’s been out of the business for a while, after all. Been with honest people, dealing with nothing more serious than awkward dinner conversations and some road rage when he loses the last parking spot in Bell Town.

But suddenly, while he’s leaning slightly against a doorway in the museum, waiting patiently for Genevieve, Jensen is in front of him.

Jared’s nostrils flare, he’s so angry. "No, Jensen. _No._ "

"Jared--"

"I want you out of here." Jared is _thisclose_ to pushing him away.

Jensen puts his hands up. "Give me one minute, that’s all--"

"I want you _gone_."

Jensen steps closer. "Jared, just—“

"You are up to something, Jensen. What? And don't say you came here for me. You're pulling a job, aren't you? Well, know this: No matter what it is, you won't win me back."

But: "Jared,” Jensen continues quietly, “I just came to say goodbye."

Jared stops short. Stares at Jensen. The red haze recedes, but just a little. "Goodbye." It’s not quite a question.

Jensen hesitates, then lifts his hands to Jared's uppers arms, skimming, shifting, while he stares at Jared. Finally, he leans in and wraps a hand loosely around the back of Jared’s neck, a sort of hug, his breath warm in Jared's ear. "You be good."

Once he’s far into the inner display rooms, Jensen stops. Adjusts his collar with only slightly shaking hands.

Waits.

It takes about sixteen seconds before he’s got two goons in front of him. He eyes them.

“Mr. Ackles,” Goon #1 says. "Ms. Cortese would like to see you."

Jensen merely nods, his jaw tight. "I thought she might."

Anton regards the man seated in front of him, while Genevieve stands to his right watching both of them. "Good afternoon, Mr. Escalante. Or should I call you Mr. Rosenbaum? You are Mike Rosenbaum, formerly of the Jeffersonian, the MOMA, and the New York State Penitentiary System, are you not?"

Mike is sullenly quiet, staring at the table with a mutinous look on his face.

"I take it from your silence that you're not gonna refute that."

Mike huffs and sits back in his chair, his hand tightening into a fist on the table.

"Ms. Cortese, I'm afraid you've been employing an ex-convict. As you know, federal law--"

"Anti-Semite."

Anton hits just the right expression of offense and disbelief. "Excuse me?"

Mike looks at him. Guy is _pissed_. If Anton didn’t know better, he’d bet a little terrified. "You heard what I said. A Jewish man can't earn a decent wage in this state?"

"That is absolutely _not_ true," Anton immediately counters.

"You're just gonna throw me out on the street?"

"I'm not trying to throw you out on the street! I'm just trying to do my job, sir!"

"Trying to do your job. What do you want from me, man? Want me to get up on the table and dance? Want me to count your money? Because I don't know you don't want to let me do my job."

"I don't know what to say to that. That's… I'm sorry, Ms. Cortese, I just resent the implication that race or religion has anything to do with it."

"Yeah, right."

"What a horrible thing to say. You, ma'am, of all people, know that we at the Bureau have always supported the hiring of Yids and--"

Mike is on him like a _shot_. He ducks out of the way, into Genevieve as choreographed--"I didn't mean it!"--and her shock is just enough for him to slip that small glorious envelope out of her jacket.

And she may not be the wiser about this petty theft, but she plants herself between the two of them like she weighs 200 pounds instead of 90. "Okay, okay, come on,” she says to Mike, tautly but not without sympathy. “Sit down."

"You'd better talk to him," Mike says warningly, his eyes still snapping.

She glares at him. "Sit down."

Chris breathes out and clicks the mic on. "He's got it. Sandy, make your move."

Jeff loosens his tie as he watches the movement of his item on the monitors. The vault seems so innocuous on the grey screens. "There,” the security guy manning the setup says to him. “There's your briefcase now, Mr. Gelfler."

"Wonderful."

He dabs the sweat off his forehead, and prays.

"That's my cue," Chris says, tightening the tie he just put on. "Give Chad the go."

John clicks his mic on. "Chad, what's your status?” There’s no answer. “Chad!"

"Chill, chill. No need to shout, bro."

"Then what's your status, _bro_?"

"I'm nearly there."

John shakes his head. “You’d better hope so, Goldilocks.”

"Ms. Walsh," Gen says to her manager, whom they’ve met near the back entrance to the offices, “show this man off the premises." Her voice is hard, brittle, and her eyes blaze at Mike. "Don't ever set foot in my museum again."

"Sir," Walsh says, taking Mike's arm.

Mike lunges at Anton. "Cracker!"

Anton flinches back. "Oh dear God."

Mike smirks triumphantly. Makes another fake lunge. Then lets himself be led out the door.

Anton makes a show of feeling in his pockets. “Oh, I forgot my phone… I left it—“ He looks up at her, apology and ‘aw, shucks’ writ large on his face. “Sorry."

Gen blows out a breath, looks at her watch. "You know your way back?"

He nods. "I do."

"Good."

"'Kay. Enjoy the opening.” He almost waves a little as she turns. “Sorry."

Jensen has counted the ceiling tiles, the stains on the floor, and the hairs on the second dude’s knuckles. He can’t stand it anymore.

"How much longer you figure Ms, Cortese is gonna be?" he ventures.

Silence is his response.

"Hmm. No cameras in this room, huh? Yeah. Don't want anybody seeing what goes on here."

Some more silence.

"She's not coming, is she?"

Then, like rain in the Sahara, there's a pounding on the door. Instead of Genevieve Cortese, however, the person that comes through is decidedly male. And decidedly _large_.

Jensen’s face falls.

"We're gonna step outside now,” Goon #2 says with a nasty grin. “Leave you two alone to talk things over."

Jensen hangs his head.

"There,” the security guy asks, sounding bored, “does that satisfy you, Mr. Gelfler?"

Because finally, his briefcase is in the vault. He can see it on the screen clear as day. Finally, he can get this show on the road.

"I am… very satisfied…" He loosens his tie.

The guy frowns, finally noticing Jeff’s apparent distress. "Are you all right, sir?"

"I'm fine,” Jeff reassures him. “I'm fine."

"All right," Jensen says, facing the huge guy head-on. He should expect the fist that comes flying at him, but he doesn’t. "Ah!” He clutches his cheek. “Gah. Jesus, Bruiser, not until later!"

Bruiser looks absolutely horrified. "Sorry, Jensen! I forgot!"

Jensen claps him on the shoulder with his free hand. "It's alright. Phew. How's your wife?"

"Pregnant again."

Jensen smiles at him as best he can. His face isn’t too bad; Bruiser’d pulled the punch. "Well, that happens. Now Let's get started."

Bruiser nods, and holds out his hands for the hoist up to remove the ceiling panel and slide into the crawl space.

Jensen takes a moment to be thankful he’s never been claustrophobic. Then he gets on with it.

Out front, the unveiling is starting. Jared is at Genevieve’s side, his hand on the small of her back in support. Right where he thinks he should be.

And right where he should be. For now.

Anton makes his way down the hall, backtracking to and then surpassing where he’s been, really getting into the bowels of the place. "You're almost there, Anton," John whispers in his ear. He’s not sure why he’s whispering, but whatever.

Too bad security notices, too. The guy with Jeff peers at the screen that shows Anton, alone, moving down the hallway. "Who's that guy? Hey, 31,” he says into his walkie talkie, “I've got a bogey in the west corridor--"

Which is when Jeff pitches forward, forcing security to look away from the screen. "Mr. Gelfler!"

"Call a doctor!" the other one says. "Elevate his head," somebody else suggests helpfully.

Amidst all this, Anton makes it to the elevator unnoticed.

John exhales then pushes a button. "Going to video… now." And the screen in the security room goes carefully back to showing an empty elevator.

"We have a man down,” one of the security guys is saying into his walkie-talkie, “and he appears to be unconscious."

Anton gets the screen door in the roof of the elevator down, then looks up – to see Jensen smiling down at him.

He curses a blue streak in Russian, but manages not to fall ass over teakettle.

Jensen just grins. "Now, you really didn't think I was gonna sit this one out, did you?"

"What, you didn't trust me?"

"I do now." Jensen reaches his hand down for the briefcase. "Come on."

The head of the Art History department is a sobbing bore, Jared recalls a little too late. The woman’s been speaking for all of five seconds before Jared’s nearly twitching where he stands.

Ah, well. He likes the perks of where he is in life, so he has to take the hits that came with it.

He stifles a yawn and starts to assess the value of the attendees’ jewels in his head. It’s a game he used to play with Jensen, and he still—

Jensen.

His gut curls.

Chris approaches the secure door, wearing a horrible wig and a convincingly serious look. "Someone call for a doctor?"

Anton eyes Jensen as they crouch above the secure elevator shaft and put together their harnesses. "How'd you get here?"

Jensen shrugs awkwardly. "You give a friend a couple million…"

"Yeah, but what about… Chris, Jared, the whole argument… What was that about?"

Jensen has the grace to look a little sheepish.

Anton’s shoulders fall. But he doesn’t pout. Nope. "Aw, come on. Why didn't you just tell me? Why'd you have to put me through all this?"

Jensen grins at him, his charming grin that gets him anyways. "Where's the fun in that?"

Anton tries, but gives up a smile in return.

"We gotta get going."

Chris will never let Jeff live this down, he thinks as he gives the older guy faux-CPR. He’s flanked by EMTs that look a lot like Steve and Zach.

He lets up for a moment, a manfully distressed look on his face. "Breathe, man, come on! Breathe!"

He ducks down for mouth-to-mouth again. Then watches, impressed by Jeff’s ability to be, well, dead.

He wipes his mouth and looks at the small crowd around him. "I'm sorry. We've lost him."

Some days, he loves his job.

Meanwhile, Bruiser is pretending to beat up Jensen in that little, camera-less back room.

He clearly loves his job, too.

Anton and Jensen, hooked into the metal beams above the shaft by wires that end in their harnesses, their feet safely still on something solid, look down at the pretty laser grid beneath them. Then the floor.

The floor that’s really far down.

Their eyes meet. "These things are gonna hold us, right?" Anton says, trying to make it sound like a joke.

"They should…” Jensen says lightly, but there’s no denying the tension there, too.

Then he lets go. Anton sucks in a breath and does the same, until he can feel his own bodyweight in a new and different way.

"Hah," Jensen lets out triumphantly. Then he pushes at his earpiece. "John, we're set."

"Chad, we're set," John says.

Unfortunately, Chad says: "Hang on a minute, baller."

John blinks at his screens. "We don't have a minute, Boy Wonder."

"Well then you'd better fucking get off my ass, don't you think? I’m not your wife."

“Thank God.”

Dr. Monotone, PhD in Boring, finishes her schpiel just as Jared’s run out of things to count – this round it’s been Jensen’s Annoying Habits – and they all turn to the piece about the be unveiled.

It’s all so very dramatic, Jared thinks, a bit uncharitably, the build-up and the--

Then the power goes out.

“Bam!” Chad shouts. Chris winces and tugs at his earpiece, but his grin is huge.

"Alright,” Jensen says to Anton the moment the laser grid flickers out, “crack 'em."

They harness their inner raver-kid and crack some glowsticks, which they then let drop down the shaft. Like they themselves are about to drop. The swooshing noise the sticks make is… not reassuring.

Too bad, so sad.

"Go,” Jensen commands quietly.

And they go.

They fly.

The end hurts, but they're alive.

"Cut it." Anton is quick to do so, unpocketing and flipping open his knife in the blink of an eye.

The lasers come back on just after they (safely) hit the floor.

_Jensen_.

The blood is roaring in Jared’s ears. He just _knows_ Jensen’s involved with this. He doesn’t know what ‘this’ is, but he knows enough to be fucking angry.

The exhibit's not exactly chaos—it’s a bunch of arts people, and it’s the Pacific Northwest, where the power goes out every winter at least twice--but Gen is instantly on the move towards the secure doors and the control room.

Jared, his jaw clenched, follows.

“On three,” Jensen instructs. Anton nods, and on the count, they pull open the elevator doors so Jensen can shuck out a nice little smoke bomb. The doors slide shut as soon as they let them go.

Jensen tracks the seconds on his wristwatch. Anton tries not to squirm. “You think Sandy made it out okay?"

"I'm sure she'll be fine."

"How we doin?" Mike asks John.

"Okay. I guess."

The two thumps of knocked out guards falling to the floor is their queue, and in minutes Jensen and Anton are standing between two tied up people and an extremely intimidating vault door.

Their awe is palpable.

"There's a 95-pound woman with the keys to a hundred and fifty million dollars behind this door," Jensen says thoughtfully.

“Yeah,” Anton replies, just as thoughtfully. "Let's get her out."

"Yeah."

They pound on the door once, hard, the pre-arranged signal. And then they wait.

"Ten says she shorts it," Zach says.

John shakes his head with a ‘you are ridiculous’ look on his face. "No bet. Idiot."

Zach bats his eyelashes.

She overshoots, but makes it. With a whoop, she climbs the door.

Her hand hitting the metal is the best sound ever.

"Okay." Jensen sets the last sensor on his side and pounds one last time.

"Where we at, boys?" Chad says back at headquarters. He’s basically done with his bit, so he’s lazing about.

"Pins and floor sensors now," John answers.

"Fuckin-a."

“Too right.”

Sandy sets up the last explosive (Jeff’s pretty ‘jewels’ pack a big punch) and pounds the final time.

"Here we go," Jensen says. "Count down from twenty… now."

"Twenty," Anton murmurs, looking at his watch.

Unbeknownst to either of them, Sandy’s shoe has become caught in the metalwork of the door. “Oh, shit,” John breathes.

"Do not blow the door," he says into his mic. "Anton, can you read me?"

Apparently, he can’t, because he’s still counting. "Ten… nine…eight…"

"Anton, can you read me?” John’s voice climbs. “Do not blow the door!"

"Two… one…" Jensen pushes the button.

Nothing happens.

“Uh…” Jensen shakes the detonator, hears nothing suspicious.

"What's wrong?" Anton asks him.

"Something…" Jensen is muttering at himself, at the detonator. At life.

"Well, did you check the battery?"

Jensen lifts his head very, very slowly. "…no."

Anton tries to repress a grin and fails. "You know, you lose focus in this game for one second…" he intones as he pulls out a fresh battery.

"I know, I know,” Jensen says, “somebody gets hurt. I don't hear Sandy complaining."

They replace the batteries, hit the button, and there's a big boom, smoke, the whole works.

They stare at the door for a while, then… walk in. it’s a little surreal.

"…Sandy?"

There’s movement from a corner of the vault. Then she executes a truly impressive tumbling pass, and ends up right in front of them. Then she grins. "We ready to do this?"

They can't help grinning back.

John, Chad, Mike, and Jeff watch from the control room as Jensen, Sandy and Anton carefully extract their four artifacts and go about with packing things up.

"That is the sexiest thing I have ever seen," Chad murmurs.

“Mmm-hmm,” Zach agrees.

Cho clicks on his mic. "Chris, you're up."

Chris punches numbers into his cell while sauntering through a nearly deserted wing of the museum. He’s never really liked sculpture, but it’s something to look at as he slots together the second to last piece of the puzzle.

While they head through the museum to the control room, Genevieve and Jared hear a ringing.

"You gonna answer that?" she finally says after the second ring, not slowing down. They’re through the secure doors and on their way to the control room.

"I don't have my phone on me,” Jared says, nonplussed.

But the ringing continues, and it's clearly coming from Jared. He fishes in his pocket and, what do you know, pulls out a small cell phone. "This isn't mine."

Genevieve glances at it, then shrugs. "See who it is."

Jared decides it can’t hurt, so he does. "Hello?"

"May I have a word with Ms. Cortese, please?" the pleasant voice on the other end says.

“Uh…” Jared holds out the phone, looking from it to Gen. "It's for you."

She takes it, slowing her walk but not stopping. "Who the hell is this?" she says tersely.

"The man who's robbing you."

Her eyes widen, and she comes to a grinding halt.

Luckily, they’re right in front of their destination.

"What the hell's going on in the vault?" she demands.

The guard on duty blinks up at her, startled. "Uh, nothing ma’am. It's all normal."

"Show me."

He does. The video screens show nothing out of the ordinary.

Genevieve’s eyes narrow as she lifts the cell phone to her ear again. "I'm afraid you're mistaken."

"Are you watching your monitors?” Chris asks casually. “Keep watching."

Elsewhere, John taps his keyboard.

And Genevieve watches in horror as the feed switches to show her guards on the floor and her vault being robbed by several figures in black.

"Sometimes," Chris’s voice comes over the phone speaker that has fallen slightly away from her ear, "your luck can change just that quickly."

Jared’s never been a dumb guy, but at the moment he feels like a fucking idiot. He was so distracted by Jensen saying goodbye, by Jensen’s mouth and Jensen’s regret and Jensen’s, well, everything—that he hadn’t noticed Jensen slipping the small phone into his pocket. Jared, trusting, stupid Jared, hadn’t even fathomed he’d been an unwitting part of the con.

Well, he knows it now. And he is going to kick somebody’s ass.

"Jared?" Genevieve says to him, distracted. "Jared, perhaps you should…"

Jared tilts his head. "Perhaps I should what?"

"It would be better if you weren't around for this. It's not your problem." Jared’s jaw clenches, but he leaves without a fuss.

Genevieve exhales, focusing. "All right," she says into the phone. "You've proved your point. You broke into my vault. Congratulations, you're a dead man."

Chris smiles into the phone. "Maybe."

"Maybe? May I ask how you expect to leave? Do you believe I’m going to allow you to bring bags of my goods out of my museum doors?"

"Nope, you're gonna carry 'em."

"And why would I do that?"

"Take a closer look at your monitors. You may notice, we're not packing up everything. Obviously. We're only here for a few things, and you're a smart girl so you've probably already guessed which ones. The other things, we're leaving in your vault, booby trapped, as hostages. You let our stuff go, and you get to keep yours. That's the deal. You try and stop us, we'll blow all of it--"

Chris stops short when he turns to find Jared looming over him, fury in his eyes. He swallows, but doesn’t stray from point. "Ms. Cortese, you can lose four stolen goods tonight secretly, or all of them publically. It's your decision." He lowers the phone and covers the mouthpiece with his hand. "Hi."

Genevieve thinks for about four seconds. Then: "Make the call."

Her manager does. "911 emergency response," a cheerful voice answers.

"Where's Jensen?" Jared asks, the bile evident in his voice.

"Jensen's fine. He's in good form."

Jared laughs without mirth. "He is."

"We have three men, with explosives,” Ms Walsh is saying to the dispatcher, “who have taken control of our vault." He nods at Genevieve.

"Okay," Genevieve says into the cell phone.

Chris still has the mouthpiece covered. "It's alright, Jared. I promise."

Jared looks fit to kill.

"You have a deal," Genevieve finishes reluctantly.

"Fantastic!” Chris says genuinely. “Here's what you do: The guys in the vault will deposit four items into the vault elevator. The elevator will rise to the main floor. Three of your guards will pick of the items, and carry them out into the museum. Now, if they take more than twenty seconds to reach the museum floor, or there's any indication a switch has been made, we'll blow up the stuff in the bags and the stuff in the vault."

Genevieve makes a noise, and pulls the phone away from her face to speak to Ms Walsh. “He's in the museum."

"Of course I’m in the museum,” Chris says, practically tsking. “We've been here all week."

Genevieve is clearly fuming, but says nothing.

"As soon as your guards hit the museum floor, a white unmarked van's going to pull up in your valet station. Your guards will load the items into the van's rear. If anyone so much as approaches the driver's door, we'll blow everything. When I get word the van is away, and the money's secured, my men will exit the building. And once their safety is confirmed, you'll get your vault back."

Ms Walsh interrupts. "The SWAT team is here."

Genevieve nods. "Alright,” she says into the phone. “Now, I have complied with your every request, would you agree."

"I would."

"Good. Because now I have one of my own. Run and hide, asshole. Run and hide. I want my people to find you, and when they do, rest assured, we're not gonna hand you over to the police. So my advice to you again, is this: run. And hide. That is all that I ask."

But Chris has already left the phone behind.

Headquarters are empty.

White vans make their way down the high way.

"Ms. Cortese, our guys say that van is headed toward Sea-Tac."

Genevieve nearly smirks. "Get everybody in position. I want my vault back before that van hits the tarmack."

The SWAT team moves in while Cortese watches the video feed showing the people robbing her vault. "Night goggles on,” the SWAT relays. “Prepare to cut power."

"Ready," the security guy at Gen's monitor says.

"Cutting power now," Gen says over the radio to the SWAT team. "Do it," she says to her guy. He hits the button. The screens go dim.

"Breaching elevator doors, now," SWAT guy says, and the sound of a battering ram can be heard. "We have two guards, bound, unconscious… Wait a minute. Guys, guys, someone's here, someone's here! Get down now, I got ‘em!" Shots ring out. "Lights! Lights! We need power, now!"

"Give it to them," Gen murmurs. The lights flip on again, the screens come up to show the SWAT team attending to the guards and approaching the vault with their guns up. "What's going on? Talk to me."

"It appears a high-explosive incendiary device has been detonated. I repeat, has been detonated. Continuing to assess the situation."

Gen curses. She turns and strides towards the door, calling instructions to Ms. Walsh over her shoulder. "Tell them to take the van. I'm going down to the vault. And find out how the _fuck_ they hooked into my system."

"Yes, ma'am."

The van, however, is a more formidable foe than assumed.

It hits the tarmack at Sea-Tac, a feat in itself, before security manages to shoot out the tires.

Then it just sits there.

Jared, fucking incensed, as it were, is nearly back to the control room when a hand stops him a couple corners away.

He looks down and sees, of all people, Chad.

"J-bird."

"Chad, what the--"

"Don't do it."

"Don't do what?"

"Well, don't play dumb, for one, and don't go trying to save your woman when you really should be trying to save Jensen."

But he's no match for Jared, let alone an angry Jared. "You!” Jared shouts, pushing Chad back. “Of all fucking people, I can't believe _you_ are standing here defending him. _Helping_ him, from the looks of it."

Chad pushes back, though, roughly, and Jared is surprised. "You don't know shit, Jared. Jensen fucking loves you, like stars and puppies and _rainbows_ loves you, and you fucking abandoned him while he was inside."

Jared stares at him. " _I_ abandoned _him_?" He shakes his head, mouth open. "I don't know what pipe you've been hitting, but you just rewrote history, man."

But Chad's just looking angrier. There's pity in there, too. And that’s just too much. Jared's lip curls. "Oh, fuck you," he snarls as he pushes past Chad down the hall.

“Status,” Genevieve demands as soon as she hits the vault.

The SWAT guy’s voice is all tinny from under his helmet. "Ma’am, our search has yielded no suspects, nor are we able to determine at this time how they entered or exited the premises."

Genevieve’s jaw tics. "Take your men out."

"Ma'am, may I suggest you stand outside until the bomb squad is--"

"Now."

The guy acquiesces. "It's your vault. Blue team! Move it out!"

Genevieve pushes the button on her walkie-talkie. "Walsh, where are we with the van?"

They’re having a showdown with the van, that’s where they are. There are loads of guys with guns out and pointed at this innocent looking white van, and nobody’s really sure what to do.

Finally, one of them, either brave or crazy, or perhaps both, finally approaches, and pulls open the driver’s side door with a yank.

…to find a camera staring back at him.

Because Zach and Misha are sitting in a car, a hundred yards away, a remote control in Zach’s over-excited hands.

Zach wiggles the knobs with glee. "’kay, I just wanna try something here for a second."

The security guy is backing away, looking around at his cohorts with a definite ‘what the fuck’ expression. "There's nobody inside!"

The van starts to slide away from him. He jumps back with a curse.

"Oops," Zach says. "Oh, sorry. Oops."

"Enough monkey business," Misha finally says. "Just do it already."

A couple other guys are approaching the rear of the van, warily eyeing the doors…

… which promptly explode open.

"Ms. Cortese,” the shell-shocked security guard says reluctantly into his phone, “we took the van, ma'am…"

"And?"

"And there were no artifacts in the van, ma'am."

"What do you mean, there were no artifacts in the van?"

"The van was filled with flyers, ma’am. For… Cialis. And… a battering ram?"

Genevieve snaps the phone shut.

She stares at the blackened walls of her vault for a long time, before a sickening thought occurs to her. "Ms. Walsh,” she says into her walkie-talkie. “Cue up the tape to the robbery."

"Yes, ma'am, I'm looking at the tape now."

"Does it say 'Gates' on the vault floor?"

"No, it doesn't. I don't understand."

Genevieve’s voice is low, rough. "We had it installed on Wednesday. The images we saw of those men robbing us was a tape."

"What?"

She exhales raggedly. "It was staged. Somebody made a duplicate of my vault. And what we saw on the monitor wasn't actually happening."

"I don't understand. What happened to the artifacts?"

Genevieve Cortese is anything but dumb.

“The SWAT team,” she says quietly to Ms. Walsh.

“You think?”

“They must have intercepted our call out.”

Ms. Walsh lets out a whistle. “Impressive.”

Genevieve kicks at some rubble on the floor in front of her. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Why would someone do this to you?”

Genevieve doesn’t laugh, but it’s a close thing. “There are plenty of people that would do this to me.”

“Well, alright. But who could actually pull it off?”

Genevieve freezes.

Then high tails it out of the room like her ass is on fire.

She heads straight to that one small room. The one with no cameras. "Open the door," she says to the two goons still outside. They do, and it reveals Jensen Ackles getting the shit kicked out of him by a huge guy. All below the neck, of course.

It stops when she walks in the room. Jensen’s bent over, but he lifts his head to look at her. "Heya, Ms. Cortese. How's your night goin'? Better'n mine?"

She winces. "Pick him up."

The goons from earlier yank on his arms until he’s standing straight. "Alright. Phew."

"Did you have a hand in this?"

"Did I have my hand in what?"

"I'm gonna ask you one more time: Did you have a hand in this?"

"Ma'am, I have no idea what you're talkin' about."

Genevieve looks at him for a long, long moment. "Okay. You're free to go. Show him out."

Jared hears the voices as he approaches the small room. "Mother _fuckers_ ," he hisses. But then Chad's hand clamps on his arm, twisting him to a halt.

"Don't."

Jared shakes his head in disbelief. “You can't possibly expect me to just leave--"

"I don't. Just don't fucking interrupt." Jared stops fighting, now more confused than ever. "How long have you known me? Trust me, fucker. Just… listen."

Jared does.

Jensen is getting led down a long hallway, looking beat to hell and leaving Gen behind. "What happened, Cortese?" Jensen throws over his shoulder. "You get robbed or something?"

Gen's voice rings out. "Stop." She approaches Jensen. Slowly. Heels clacking ominously. She dismisses her two guards. "We go way back, Jen, so I'm gonna give you one last chance. Where are my things?"

Jensen, suddenly, is all business. "What if I told you I could get your things back, and I'd never tell anybody about how underhandedly you got them--or about how you threw my ass under the bus five years ago just to save your own skin, and the only reason Jared didn't get taken down too is because I turned myself in--but in return, you have to give up Jared. You let him go. You never talk to him again. What would you say?"

Gen deliberates, but only for a second. "I would say yes."

Jensen doesn't miss a beat. "Alright. I know this guy, we were in the joint together…"

But Jared's heard enough. He cuts around the corner with a loud, booming, “Oh, _hell_ no."

Jensen and Gen both turn to him.

Jensen smiles. That small smile he has for Jared, where the corners of his eyes and mouth crinkle and he looks like he knows the best secret in the whole wide world.

Gen, on the other hand, pales.

That's more than enough proof for Jared.

He walks up to Jensen, grabs the back of his neck, brings their foreheads together. Jensen's hands are a vice-grip on his upper arms. "Jesus," he breathes into Jensen's temple. "I’m so sorry."

Jensen shakes his head, pulls back a little, smiles. "See, I knew what I was doing."

"I didn't." And he can't help it, he kisses him. Kisses him firmly and deeply and it's only when he hears heels clicking away from them that he breaks it.

It's an easy couple of strides to catch her arm, and even easier to twist her wrists together. She gives a token protest, growling, but he isn't having it. "Maybe you didn't hear me the first time, Gen, but: _Hell_ no. You are going to jail, you are going directly to jail. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars."

He hears Jensen guffaw behind him, and it's the best sound he's ever heard.

They leave Gen trussed up like a turkey, along with documents showing exactly how she procured the four artifacts no longer in her possession. Not to mention a nice expose about her involvement in the Incan Matrimonial Headmasks Incident.

It makes a nice present for the cops that Jared calls just before he drags Jensen out the back door, through the parking lot, and to his car.

Jensen stops short in front of it. "A Range Rover? You fuckin' kiddin' me?"

Jared shakes his head, grinning, and tugs Jensen around to the passenger side, away from the building, before pushing him up against the door and kissing him again. "You like it?" he says, lowly, against Jensen's lips.

Jensen chuckles. "Is this what being a kept boy gets you? Or was it cold-decking _Teen Beat_ cover boys?"

"Cheeky." Jared kisses him again for his sass. He can hear the rumble in Jensen's voice, can feel the sweet way Jensen's body lines up with his. "And here I was going to let you drive someday."

Jensen snorts, and pushes at him, albeit a little reluctantly. "We need to get back."

Jared raises an eyebrow at him. "We?"

"Well." Jensen almost blushes, and Jared kisses the corner of his mouth. He can't _not_. " _I_ do," Jensen murmurs, "and…" He shifts, reaching for Jared once again. "I'd look like a pretty big chump if you didn't come back with me."

"To the victor go the spoils, huh?" Jared nudges Jensen's nose with his.

"Something like that. God, you're being such a girl. Can we just please go back to Misha's so we can get the hell out of town and have this reunion somewhere horizontal?"

Jared throws his head back and laughs.

Then they hear the wail of sirens. They both tense up, and look at each other.

"To answer your question, yes. And I think that's our cue."

"That’ll about do it, yeah."


	4. The Payoff

They make it back to Misha's in record time, despite Jared fully intending to go the speed limit, which itself is despite Jensen being unable to keep his hands in his own damn lap.

Jensen is fast out of the car, but Jared is faster. And practically throws him against the house, right beside the door, before Jensen can reach for the doorbell. "How long is this going to be?"

Jensen meets his gaze, eyes twinkling. "How long is what going to be?"

Jared makes a fierce noise low in his throat, and Jensen exhales. Which tips his jaw up just enough… Jared leans down and latches on, sucking and licking and feeling Jensen's fingers come up to clench reflexively in his hair. "Shit, Jay…" he hears Jensen grind out, and he can feel the words against his lips, and wants more, wants it all.

He lets the blood roar in his ears for a moment more, then pulls back.

Jensen's eyes are dark and huge, and his mouth is open, inhaling like he's forgotten how to do it. "Jared--"

"I have to go."

Wrinkles appear between Jensen's eyes so swiftly that Jared can't help but smile. He brings a hand up to cup Jensen's jaw. "I have to go home and get my things. And you need to do things here." He inclines his chin. "Party with your peeps."

But Jensen is shaking his head, holding on to him. "You're one of them, Jay. Chris and Chad, they knew, and the rest of them-- they'll know soon enough."

Jared looks at him fondly. "I need my toothbrush, Jensen."

Jensen looks at him like he's lost his mind. "Jared, there are going to be cops all over that house. And in three days I'll have thirteen million dollars. I'll buy you eight hundred tooth brushes."

Jared whistles low. "Jesus. Really?"

"Really. And Misha can retrieve anything you really end up missing." He places a hot, quick kiss on Jared's mouth. "Now—

“Now will you stop groping each other in full view of the street and get inside?” Misha’s voice is indulgent, but earnest, and Jared and Jensen chuckle, but don’t let go of each other. “Please? I don’t want my neighbors to think I’m running something unsavory, here.”

“Oh, well, of course. Anything for you, Professor,” Jensen says with a grin, and he pushes Jared towards the door.

  


They get slaps on the back from Misha and growls from Chris and the biggest wet willy _ever_ from Chad. Who then introduces Jared around. Jared is charming and dimpled and Jensen watches, feeling his eyes crinkle with a smile. He knows he probably has the dopiest expression on his face, and for the moment, he doesn’t give a damn.

“Congratulations, guys,” Jared finally says to everybody with a grin. “I hear this is going to set you up for early retirement.”

“Hell yeah,” Chad exhorts. He kicks back onto the couch, beer in hand. “And I don’t even have to leave the country.”

Jensen coughs, and Jared looks at him curiously. “Excuse me, need to hit the head,” Jensen says quietly, and he gives Jared a smile that’s supposed to reassure him but totally doesn’t.

Jared looks at Chad after Jensen exits. Chad just shrugs at him. “Alright, then. I’ll be back, gentlemen.” He inclines his head at Sandy with a wink. “Sandy.”

  


He finds Jensen not in the bathroom, which doesn’t surprise him, but in the nursery, which does. Jensen’s staring out the window at the Sound. Shutting the door behind him (“Nothing unsavory!” he can hear Misha saying), Jared wants to approach him, but doesn’t want to accidentally break the moment.

So he breaks it on purpose. “I can’t even pick a ‘this isn’t the bathroom’ joke; they’re all too easy.”

Jensen doesn’t turn, but he smiles softly. “Your face is too easy.”

Jared laughs out loud. “Whoa there, partner, you sound like Chad.”

“Well, I’ve been in forced close proximity for a month now; can you blame me?”

Jared shakes his head. “He’s a dog. But he’s a good guy.”

“Yeah,” Jensen agrees quietly. “Yeah. He… he helped me get you back, afterall.”

Jared studies his drawn face. “Then what’s the problem?”

Jensen exhales. Then inhales again. “I have to go. I have to go far away and I have to stay there for a while, and I want to take you with me but I have no right, you said it yourself, I have no fucking _right_ , to take you away from the places you live, the people you love, the opportunity to live a normal life, to find somebody you can love that isn’t a fuck up, to have—“ He stops, gestures uselessly at the crib. “Have babies. Have whatever you want. Have _normal_.”

 _Oh_.

For real, Jared’s heart is going to jump right out of his chest at how much he loves this man.

He starts to walk towards Jensen, his voice quiet but sure. “What if I don’t want normal?”

Jensen finally, _finally_ looks up at him.

“What if I want fucked up?” He makes a face. “Well, provided you’re not getting shot at, or in prison again, or, I don’t know, running coke for the Russian mafia—“

“Not lately.”

“--provided those things aren’t happening… I’ll take fucked up over normal any day, as long as it’s you.”

Jensen sucks in a breath as Jared stops just in front of him. “Jared…”

Jared can barely breathe, the air is so full of all these wants and needs. They stretch Jared thin.

Until he remembers _he doesn't have to hold back anymore_.

Well, then. Unsavory, it is.

He drops the pretense and grabs Jensen, both hands on Jensen’s perfect ass so Jensen has to grab onto Jared’s shoulder as Jared propels them both towards the nearest blank wall space.

"Jesus Christ--" Jensen manages.

Jared cuts him off with a hard press of his lips. "The name's Jared," he manages, because no time is a bad time for that joke. Then he's too busy kissing Jensen to joke anymore, too busy licking at those lips, licking past them to find warm wetness and that _taste_ he's missed so fucking much.

Five _years_.

Jensen's legs press strongly against his sides, and Jared encourages it, the support of the wall allowing him to push in, pull Jensen around him, until their pelvises line up and-- "Oh yeah, that's it," he whispers into Jensen's mouth. "Fuck, I've missed you."

"Jared-- Jay--" Jensen's words are protesting but his mouth, his tongue is tangling with Jared's and his hands clutch at Jared's shoulder like he's ballast in a storm. "We-- we need to go--" he pants into Jared's mouth, even as his hips jerk into Jared's, forcing their cocks to push against each other through layers of clothing. "Fuck, fuck, Jay--"

"We will, Jen-- We--" Jared chokes off as Jensen's movement hits him _just_ right. "Aw, Jesus, yeah, just--"

"Yeah, alright--" Jensen's biting at his jaw, nipping at his lips as best he can. "Just-- a little--"

Their breaths mingle hotly, shuddering across each other's cheeks and stubble and red-rimmed eyes, and Jared knows, _knows_ this is going to be over soon. It's been too long. "Jen--" His movements grow erratic, as do Jensen's, and before long he's shuddering hard into Jensen, probably crushing him against the wall but he's pretty sure Jensen doesn't care, what with the way Jensen is cursing and shaking against him.

Jensen lets out a regretful sound as they ride the aftershocks. Jared huffs out a laugh. "What?"

Jensen smacks his lips together, swallows. "I had this whole seduction thing planned, you know?"

Jared grins. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. And it sure as shit didn't involve coming in our pants like teenagers." Jensen gingerly unhooks his legs from Jared and slides down, pulling a face. "Ew."

Jared laughs lightly and kisses him. "Good thing we're three days from boatloads of money, then."

Jensen looks at his watch, then groans. "Not if we miss our flight. Get cleaned up."

Jared raises an eyebrow. “ _Our_ flight?”

Jensen flushes more than he already was, and pushes at Jared. “I was optimistic, okay. Now get the fuck away from me.”

Jared reaches over and pats him on the head. "Yes, sir."

Jensen shoves him away with a grin.

  


“So where are we going?”

"Ever been to Newbury?"

"Connecticut?"

Jensen shakes his head. "England."

Jared’s eyebrow goes up. "Okay, now I’m just intrigued."

"Good." Jensen grins, and slaps him on the ass. "Now go on, get. I'll explain on the way."

  


Jensen doesn't explain after that, though, even, and Jared was totally sure that he would. They get halfway to the airport before Jared even gets an exasperated cuss word out of him, so he kind of gives up.

Kind of.

"So. England," he ponders aloud instead. "Land of good manners. Fish, chips, cup o' tea, Mary fucking Poppins."

Jensen looks at him, an evil smile on his lips. "Got it in one, actually."

Jared's so confused. "We're going because of the good manners?"

"So to speak."

Jared considers this, then says the first thing that comes to mind. "They won't be after our money in England?"

"You keep using this first person plural. What's with that? Last I knew, I got some papers that said--"

Jared gives half a thought to the cab driver, then decides not to and leans over Jensen as much as he can without actually climbing into his lap, a feat which would be impossible taking into consideration all the dimensions involved. "Jensen Ross Ackles, I would marry you again in two minutes flat if it were still legal, and you know it."

"I do?"

Jared smirks, then bats his eyelashes and makes his best puppy expression. "I mean, if you'll have me."

Jensen puts a hand over his face and pushes, groaning. And grinning. "Nobody else in their right mind would, so I guess, sure."

Jared whoops, then kisses Jensen. Just a little one-- okay, maybe two-- three, and okay, maybe some tongue…

He pulls away finally, and says lowly: "Besides, you never _signed_ those papers."

Jensen flushes. "I didn't think you'd noticed."

Jared softens. "Jen. Jen, I…"

"No. None of that. You're not going to go all mushy on me right before a trans-Atlantic flight."

"No?"

"No. We'll have nine hours to kill in a very small box flying thirty thousand feet above the ground. We'll have time to talk then."

"Talk? I was planning on having several gin & tonics and joining the mile high club."

Jensen snorts a lot at that one. "Have you never been on an airplane? They can't even fit one of you in the bathroom, let alone you and a guest."

"I don't know, I'm surprisingly bendy."

Jensen's turn to smile. "I remember." He licks his lips. Jared's eyes track the movement, even in the dark of the cab. "Alright, fine, we'll give it a try."

"Yes!"

"Once."

"Whatever."

"And if you sprain something and are miserable the rest of the flight, it is _so_ not my fault."

  


They do try. No one sprains anything, but no one comes, either. They just laugh, a lot, and get scolded by a smiling flight attendant, who winks at them then ushers them back to their seats.

"Well," he says to Jensen as they settle back in, "at least we can say we tried."

Jensen shakes his head with a smile. "Yeah, this is a story to tell the grandkids."

Jared lights up. "Can we?"

Jensen groans and shoves one of the tiny airline pillows at his face. "Shut up and go to sleep, you overgrown toddler."

And, surprisingly, Jared, after twitching and complaining and stealing Jensen's pillow and folding himself around Jensen in a complex pretzel-like formation, does as requested. For once.

Jensen presses a kiss to the side of Jared's neck, a small smile on his face, and follows.

  


Somewhere over the North Pole, Jared thinks he might've figured out the secret. Not to eternal happiness or anything--although he's pretty sure that's good barbeque and a steady supply of naked Jensen--but to who they're meeting in England.

But he almost doesn't want to hope, so he doesn't mention it. And if he's bouncing around a little more than expected while they go through Customs and get into a rental car, well, Jensen doesn’t comment. Just smiles. So maybe he knows Jared knows.

That thought makes Jared smile, too.

  


And holy shit, he's right.

The name on the mailbox is, indeed, 'Manners'.

  


He pulls Jensen back from where Jensen's about to knock on the door. "Jen. I can't." He runs out of words and just looks at Jensen, eyes wide.

Jensen's eyes crinkle. "Aw, Jay. It's okay. He knows the whole story."

Jared swallows. "And he doesn't hate me?"

"God, no." Jensen laughs a little wryly. "In fact, he kept telling me not to give up on your ass, that you'd come to your senses, and, I dunno, somehow figure out what had happened."

"Crazy-ass."

"Always have been, always will be," comes a raspy voice from the doorway.

"Holy shit," Jared breathes. "Kim." And he envelopes the admittedly frail body of his former mentor into the bear-hug of a lifetime. "I thought--" He chokes off. He squeezes Kim once more, then pulls back, his eyes wide and shining. "I thought you were dead."

"I know, kid, and I'm sorry about that, I really am." Kim spreads his hands in a 'what can ya do?' sort of gesture. "Had to get out, and in our business, there's only two ways of doing that."

"Die or die trying," Jensen quips, and Jared comes back to himself.

"Nobody in this immediately vicinity is allowed to die any time soon. Or, you know, ever." He looks sternly from Jensen to Kim then back again. "You got that?"

Kim salutes. Jensen chuckles, then cuffs the back of Jared's neck briefly. "Got it. Now get inside."

  


Kim hands them the check right away.

"What, no beer?"

Jared looks confused. "I didn't notice a clavichord in my carry-on."

Jensen and Kim both laugh. "No, you just got the jewels, princess."

Jared then just looks startled. "You slick son of a--"

"Don't insult my mama."

"Wouldn't dream of it. She cooks better'n you."

"Everybody cooks better'n me."

“Ain’t that the truth.”

Kim’s just shaking his head. “You two go get unpacked. The guest room’s small but the bed is big.” He says this without a leer or a hint of judgment, but Jared wants to blush anyways. It’s like being told it’s okay to have sex by your parents; it’s just _weird_.

But it’s also like being told by your parents to, well, go unpack. So they go and do just that. They put their clothes in ‘wardrobes’ and their toothbrushes in the ‘toilet’ (which still makes Jared giggle). All the furniture is so very English. Smaller, somehow, and Jared has to stoop more frequently than normal. And he normally has to stoop quite a lot.

But the bed will work. Oh, the bed will most definitely work.

Except that they’re at _Kim’s house_.

All this domestic shit is killing him. He’s tired, he’s horny as hell, and he _has Jensen right there_. He wants to whine something fierce by the time he’s finished packing. He turns to Jensen to perhaps—oh, who’s he kidding, definitely do so, but he’s stopped short by the look on Jensen’s face.

Jensen's staring at Jared's right hand, his cheeks pink. Jared flushes, too. "Yeah, I…" He reflexively reaches up to scratch the back of his neck, but Jensen pulls his wrist down. Stares at the ring on his third finger. The one Jared had unpacked and slipped back on five minutes ago.

"You said that you sold this," Jensen says quietly.

Jared nods. "I said that."

Jensen looks at him, his eyes intense. "Liar."

Jared looks right back. "Thief."

And that’s it, Jared doesn’t care if his grandmother and her sewing circle are in the next room listening, he’s going to fuck Jensen and he’s going to do it _now_ \--

“I’m off to the pub!” Kim calls through the house. “Quiz night, so don’t expect me back for a few hours. Get some rest, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

And the front door slams shut behind him. Loudly enough that they can hear it. Loudly enough that if it were anybody else, any other situation, Jared would think whoever had slammed it was really, really pissed at him.

However.

“Quiz night,” he says, a bit dumbly, to Jensen.

“Seems that way.”

“A couple hours.”

“Seems that way, too.”

“Well.”

“Well.”

“If you don’t stop me, I’m gonna kiss you right now. And then I’m gonna lay you out on that bed and show it things it has never seen before.”

Jensen grins, but there’s a fire in his eyes. He cocks his chin up a little in challenge. “Whatcha waitin’ on, Padalecki?”

  


He was waiting, it seems, as he cradles Jensen’s face in his hands and kisses him softly, then deeply, then thoroughly—“I rocked you back,” he’ll say later with a cheeky grin--for exactly that.

  


Jensen looks just like Jared remembers, and yet not. As he pulls off Jensen’s travel-worn clothes piece by piece, and Jensen pulls off his, between kisses, between muttered encouragements, and perhaps between a smile or two, he sees new scars. He sees new lines. He sees paleness where before there had been sun.

He touches each and every bit, new and old and in between. Rubs palms across expanse of chest, freckled muscles of arms. Kisses trails down his neck. Runs a tongue along his nipples then down his ribs. Noses under his arm until Jensen lurches upwards with a laugh.

Jensen smells just like Jared remembers, mostly. Time fades these things, and things smell different in foreign countries, no matter what. But the coarse hairs that shade under his arms, the wrinkled skin that creases where his thighs meet the base of his cock – These things don’t change. Jared inhales, then hums on the exhale, delighted.

When his lips close around Jensen’s dick, he inhales again, eyes shut. Reveling. Jensen’s fingers clutch at his hair, their grip along with his murmurs guiding Jared along as he relearns the path. He follows easily until Jensen is panting and sweating and thrusting into Jared’s mouth just this side of too much. Jared pulls back, mouthing at just the tip, and lets his finger travel down the soft, unique skin alongside the backside of Jensen’s ballsac and back to his hole.

Jensen shifts and murmurs something unintelligible, but Jared doesn’t need a translation. He knows this dance. And sure enough, in a few seconds, Jensen’s pushing into his hand the container of lube and condom they’d unpacked twenty minutes before. Jared swiftly puts the lube to use, then licks slowly up and down Jensen’s cock as he tucks a finger inside him.

Jensen feels just like Jared remembers-- warm, and tight, and Jared can hardly stand to wait, to work up to it, but Jensen is right there with him, muttering encouragement, nonsense, and occasionally insults as Jared takes what feels like hours preparing him.

Finally, when he can tell they’ve both had enough, he rolls on a condom and slicks himself up, then presses in. It’s a slow, rough push, until he’s fully encased, they’re fully connected, and the sensation threatens to swallow them both.

He rises up over Jensen, knees over shoulders and bodies as close as they can be, and starts to thrust, slowly, explorative at first. Jensen looks ridiculously gorgeous below him, his skin flushed, his eyes dark, and his mouth open from kisses and endearments and rough breathing.

Jared’s arms, he finds to his surprise, are shaking as he leans down for a kiss.

He tries to put it all into the kiss, all his love for now, regret for the last five years, hope for the future—But it’s a tall order, as the pleasure shooting from his cock starts to take over. But he’s nothing if not determined.

As their pace increases, Jensen’s hands are everywhere, rough calluses and smooth heels and Jared aches with the thought that he almost gave this up for good. He runs his lips up Jensen’s jaw to end at his ear, then breathes out as best he can: “These two are not two. Love has made them one.”

Jensen’s legs wrap impossibly tighter around him. “Jay—“

But Jared won’t stop, either the fucking or the reciting, because this, _this_ he means more than anything else in the world. “Amo Ergo Sum…”

Jensen’s hands lock on him, one against his shoulders and one in his hair, holding him in place. “And by its mystery,” Jensen finishes, his voice low, rough, _wrecked_ , “each is no less, but more.”

And the hand in his hair tightens, and Jared pulls back as he starts fucking into Jensen in earnest, their rhythm becoming sloppy, as do their snatched kisses. “Jen—“

“Yeah,” Jensen says back, breathless, and they both reach for Jensen’s cock, the dance continuing, and Jensen throws his head back at the contact. “Almost—“

“Look at me,” Jared grunts out. “Been too long.”

“Jay—“ But Jensen does as requested, and Jared is overwhelmed by the thread of emotion hanging between them, strong as ever. A few strokes later Jensen’s orgasm clutches his dick, and Jared’s subsequent orgasm chokes him, his breath stopping in his chest as the waves roll over him.

He’s not shaking anymore, he notes as he practically collapses onto Jensen after disposing of the condom. He can’t move at _all_.

Jensen can, however, because he shoves at Jared until they’re lumped into something resembling two spoons. Two manly spoons. Because there’s no rule about the bigger person being the bigger spoon, right? Right.

“I can’t believe you whipped out the Britten quote during sex,” Jensen says into Jared’s neck, sounding exhausted. “Possibly the gayest thing you’ve ever done.”

Jared’s grin is huge against the pillow. Tired, but huge. “No, I’d say fucking you up the ass is the gayest thing I’ve ever done.”

Jensen shoves the extra pillow into his face.

“Uh fwmuhp voo,” Jared says through the fabric.

“Yeah, yeah, I love you too.” Jensen’s grip around his waist tightens. “Now go the fuck to sleep.”

  


A few weeks later—too soon, in Jared’s opinion as he thinks of the huge bed in the flat he now shares with Jensen—the whole team shows up at Kim’s door en masse.

“You definitely got a group rate this time,” Jensen says to the lot of them.

Chad’s at the helm, and hands Jensen a box of graham crackers. “Cheers, fucker.”

Jensen looks at the graham crackers, non-plussed. But Jared lets out a whoop. Jensen raises an eyebrow at him. “What?” Jared says, grabbing them. “They’re the one thing I can’t find in this country. We’re so having s’mores later.”

  


And they _do_ have s’mores later. Gathered around Kim’s woodstove, burning the hell out of their hands but enjoying every second.

“No,” Zach critiques Steve, “you have to let it _brown_ , not burn the shit out of it.”

Steve leans in and puts his charred marshmallow right up in Zach’s face. “I like it like this. Then it’s all gooey on the inside.” And the leer is apparent.

“You’re disgusting.”

Chad pokes Jared, then nods at Steve and Zach. “You and Jensen should have a big gay double wedding with these two knobs. This is some Shakespearean hatesex shit, right here.”

Jared grabs him and headlocks him for a noogie. “Jensen and I are still married, ya idjit.”

Chad huffs and squirms his way out of Jared’s grip. “Well, okay, but Zach here—“

“Is already married,” Jensen says firmly.

Chad stops short. Hell, so does Jared. “He’s what?”

Zach laughs out loud, then stands and walks the few steps over to them. “The Js and I are in a three-person marriage. It’s legal somewhere. Sweden, I think.”

Chad’s mouth is open. “You’re shitting me.”

“Yes,” John’s voice comes up from nearby. “He is.” He grabs Zach around the waist and hauls him down for a kiss. “This patchouli-stink is all mine, boys. Sorry.”

“Oh my God, quit it with the PDAs,” Steve says from behind them. “And buy him a _bath_ , then, with your newfound wealth.”

“Same time you buy some musical taste with yours,” Zach retorts. “I mean, really. Kenny Chesnutt at 6am? Any jury would declare it justifiable homicide.”

Their laughter echoes through the small house. They spend the next several hours arguing the merits of country music—avoiding black eyes, but barely—and basically comparing penis length by boasting of all the things they’re going to do with their newfound wealth.

It’s the best night Jensen’s had in a long time. Five years, of course, but perhaps even longer than that.

He’s musing on this, and probably staring absently into the fire, when Jared sits down next to him on the couch and Jensen’s immediately enveloped in an extra layer of warmth. Metaphorically and literally; Jared’s a huge human furnace. Jensen’s grateful on this chilly English night.

“Hey,” Jared says easily.

“Hey.”

“Whatcha thinkin’ ‘bout?”

Jensen turns to him. His eyes trail down to Jared’s lips, then back up again. “Oh, you know. Nothin’.”

“Nothin'?”

“Nope. Nothin’.”

“Well,” Jared says, and it’s then Jensen notices that the rest of the crew has gone off to their respective corners, “mind some company while you do it?”

Jensen feels a smile crease the corners of his face. “And who would this company be?”

Jared smiles. It's not his huge smile, his smile for everyone in the world to fall in love with him, but his smile for Jensen. “Lil ole me.”

“Oh, well, then, no," Jensen says, tucking his hand under Jared's. "I don’t mind at all.”

  


  
  
**  
_FIN_   
**   
  



End file.
